Midsummer and the weather was fine
and the trail led past Tunglin
inside was an old friend's poem
off by itself high on a wall
his insights once echoed throughout the realm
but his voice has now been stilled
the ink revealed a brushstroke or two
but what he had written was worn away
suddenly his life is a dream
all that he did is now past
those years we rode through the capital together
with satchels full of our latest work
the court valued our looks and our talents
and our colleagues held jade disks and tablets
but our Cedar Hall posts are gone for good
our names aren't listed at Bronze Horse Gate
entangled by thoughts of life and death
how can I relax among forests and streams
the mountain feels chilly after a rain
the wind scatters flowers in the fading light
new acquaintances fill my hall
but where can I find my old companion
it's only to friends who shared those days
I can seal and send this useless lament