To the tune of "Rinsing Silk Stream"
Let not the deep cup be filled
with rich, amber-colored wine;
My mind was eased of sorrow
even before I was drunk.
Distant bells have already echoed
in the evening breeze.
My dream is broken
as the scent of incense vanishes.
Too small, the hairpin of the gold
loosens its hold of my tresses.
I awake to find myself blankly facing
the red flickering glow
of the candle.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem