Scented silk curtain embroidered
with phoenix tails, flimsy and multi-fold;
Green patterns on a circular canopy
deep in the night I saw her sew.
A moon-shaped fan hid not her blush;
A coach thundered by
before words from our lips could flow.
Golden candle wicks burn dim
in loneliness ever since:
News about her comes not
though red the pomegranates grow.
My dappled horse is just tethered
by the bank of weeping willows ─
Where in the southwest
would a favourable wind blow?