On Yan Zhi Mountain, gold leaves of autumn fall
and I go to the tower above our home
to think of you; over the water azure clouds
are breaking; and, from the frontier plains,
comes the first breath of winter.
Now the tribesmen are mustering their forces
in the desert; the messengers of Han have
returned from Yu Men Guan, still there
is no news of my husband’s return; I feel
that my heart is breaking as I watch the orchid withering away.