I forded the River to pluck the hibiscus,
and in the orchid marsh of many fragrant grasses:
To whom shall I give what I have taken?
The one I think of is on a far-off way;
does he still turn to gaze on his old home?
On the long road the distance slowly grows,
the single heart we share is forced to dwell in two places:
naught but grief and worry as slowly we grow old.

translated by J.P. Seaton