A Ballad of Peach Blossoms

Outside the curtain, peach blossoms in a gentle east wind; Inside the curtain, she is too listless for her morning toilette. Outside, the peach blossoms; inside, the maiden— Not far apart, the person and the flowers. The east wind tries to lift the curtain's edge; The blossoms peer, but the curtain won't unfurl. The peach blossoms still open as before outside, But the one inside is thinner than the flowers. If flowers could pity her, flowers too would grieve; Through the curtain, news is blown on the wind. Wind through the gauze, blossoms fill the courtyard— Spring's beauty in the garden doubles the heartache. Idle moss, the courtyard gate half-closed; Slanting sun, she leans alone on the railing. Leaning there, she weeps into the east wind; Her crimson skirt steals close beside the peach blossoms. Peach flowers and peach leaves flutter in confusion— New red blooms unfold, leaves gather in deep green. Ten thousand trees wrapped in mist and haze, A blurred red glow upon the towers and walls. The loom of heaven burns through mandarin-duck brocade; Drunk on spring, half-waking, she shifts the coral pillow. Her maid brings the golden basin of water; In the fragrant spring, her reflection mingles with cold rouge. Rouge so vivid—how alike they are: The color of the flower, the tears of the person. If one compared human tears to peach blossoms— Tears flow endlessly while blossoms merely charm. Eyes full of tears gaze at the blossoms till tears run dry; When tears are spent and spring is done, the blossoms wilt. Wilting blossoms screen a wilting girl; Flowers fall, the weary maiden meets the dusk. One cry of the cuckoo—spring is gone; The lonely curtain frames an empty trace of moon.