HERE BY THE WINDING STREAMLET, AMONG THE SIGHING WINDS, OLD GRAY MICE SCURRY OVER THE ROOF-TILES. NO ONE ANY MORE REMEMBERS THE PRINCE’S NAME WHO BUILT THIS PALACE UNDER OVERHANGING CLIFFS.

IN DARKENED ROOMS YOU CAN SEE GREEN GHOST FIRES ... FROM THE FLUTES OF THE FOREST YOU CAN HEAR A THOUSAND VOICES. THE YOUNG PALACE LADIES OF LONG AGO ARE IN THEIR YELLOW GRAVES ... THEN WHY ARE PAINTED SCROLLS STILL HANGING ON THE WALL? THE CHARIOTEERS AND THEIR GOLD CHARIOTS ARE CRUMBLED ... THEN WHY ARE STONE HORSES, CARVED IN OLDEN DAYS, STANDING YET?

SADNESS SITS ON THE GRASS. I SING THE STORY, BUT I AM HEAVY WITH SORROW ... AMONG ALL THESE PATHS THAT WE MAY WALK ALONG INTO THE DISTANCE, WHICH ONE WILL EVER CARRY US TO LIFE FOREVER? [Tu Fu]