Living apart, we watched the stars and years change;
All hope gone, we are separated by life and death.
The cinnamon lees gather in the wine jar;
The old rue leaves lie cold on the book labels.
The river wind blows hard on the wild geese;
The mountain trees, sheltering cicadas, stand in the setting sun.
A single cry, a thousand times turning back the head—
But heaven is high and does not hear!

translated by James J.Y. Liu