Immortal at the Magpie Bridge
Written for a Friend on the Double Seventh Eve
The green-drest songstress told me what she’d say,
When first we feasted in the bower red,
The night was deep, so cool and clear.
Beyond bamboos and lotus blooms we met again,
Again like floating cloud she flew away.
Her letter is still wet,
Perfumes not dispersed yet.
I feel in vain
Sorrow in thread.
Unlike the cowherd and his sweet
Who could still meet
Once every year.