HIGH ON A HILL, LOOKING DOWN ON THE WINDY LAKE. SEE: A LITTLE ROCKING BOAT, STORM-TOSSED LIKE OUR LIFE TOGETHER. NOW MIST HAS HIDDEN BOAT AND JOURNEY.

OVER THE MIST THE SUN SETS FAR OFF IN HEAVEN. ONLY HILLS ARE RED: FIELD, HOLLOW AND LAKE ARE BLUE WITH SHADOW.

NOW ISLANDS IN THE LAKE ARE BLACK PEARLS SET IN AMETHYST. NOW THAT WOODED HILL, A HEAD OF WAVING WOMAN’S HAIR, IS BLACK. AND SEE, A CRESCENT COMB OF SILVER MOON.

SAD AND HAPPY, I PICK UP MY LUTE AND SING UNTIL THE STARS GROW PALE. [Tsiang-Tien]