These are long days. Days of waiting
stretched longer by the clouds
thickening over the weak fog
and the smoke of burnt camphors
rising from the golden incense box.
Once again, it is the Chongyang Festival.
Jade pillow and gauze tent,
a coldness permeates the midnight.
Holding a cup of rice wine
at the East Fence, my sleeves filled
with the odor of old blossoms.
Don’t tell me that the soul
won’t be abraded by this dense scent
of lovesickness. The west wind
rolling up the curtain, I am thinner
than a yellow chrysanthemum.