| 英譯： |
No more Little Tungs left in the world today—
Yet still we sing of 'Dragons in the Water'.
White grasses, dead beneath invading mist,
Red coils of autumn goosefoot on the earth.
Ancient writing effaced from the black stones,
The green bronze spirit-sword is broken.
Ploughlands rising like scales of a fish,
Tomb's slope sharp as a horse's mane.
Petals of chrysanthemum drooping, wet with dew,
Dry wormwood lying on the date-tree path.
Poignant, the harsh fragrance of pine and cypress,
How many nights wind moaned these southern fields!
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