(To the Tune of Quetazhi)
Deep, deep is the courtyard.
How deep? Willows surrounding,
curtains upon curtains, too many
he pulls up the magnificent carriage
by the courtesan quarters. Here,
I mount the tower, unable to see him
on the road of pleasure.
The wind and rain rages in late April.
The door closes in the dusk.
There is no way of holding the spring.
Tearfully, I ask the flowers,
who do not answer,
in a riot of red falling over the swing.