THE FRAGRANCE IS BLOWN FROM THE LOTUS-FLOWERS. THE EMERALD LEAVES ARE WITHERED NOW AND BROWN. THE WEST WIND IS PUFFING SORROWS INTO GREEN RIPPLES ON THE RIVER. EVERYTHING IS DYING, MY YEARS ARE DYING ... I CANNOT BEAR THE SIGHT OF DEATH.

I STARE AT THE SILKEN LINES OF RAIN, WHERE MY DREAMS ARE FLOATING IN THE LOST LANDS OF NEVERMORE. ALONE I BLOW ON MY FLUTE OF JADE, UNTIL MY BALCONY FREEZES WITH THE ICY NOTES. O ENDLESS SORROWS, ENDLESS TEARS, ENDLESS LEANING ON MY EMPTY BALCONY. [Prince Li Chin]