Pestling the musk into powder does not kill the fragrance,
Snapping lotus root by the inch hardly severs the attaching fibres.
The red tears of Wenji and the Luoshui River in spring,
The white hair of Su Wu and the fluttering Tianshan Mountain snow.
Didn’t you see Gao Wei in his lascivious foppery, worry-free?
The Zhang River banquet over, in came the chilling crystalline dews.
Once the ministers and generals taken prisoners or slaves,
The Qiang flute, ever since, was preceded by tearful spates.
The sideburns of officials frosted before their time,
Pity, their high ambitions aging in inebriating wine.
From time immemorial, spring always returns but not dreams.
As the Yecheng City is o’ergrown in storms with soaring weeds.