<Formatted Translation>
Crows flock to their nests
on the city's fringe at twilight:
They chatter on the branches
after their homeward flight.
Weaving brocade by the loom
is a Qin Chuan dame;
The green gauze looks like mist
as she murmurs behind the window pane.
In sadness she stops the shuttle ─
recalling her love faraway:
Alone lying in bed in an empty room,
her tears fall like rain.