As cicadas make bitter and sorrowful rattles,
We come to the pavilion late in the evening,
The sudden downpour slowing to a stop.
Beneath the tent set outside the city gate,
No one was in the mood for a drink.
Though reluctant to leave,
The magnolia boat was rushing to sail.
Looking into each other’s teary eyes,
Silently choking on our words.
The thought of departure,
Away along a thousand miles of misty water;
Though the evening haze was thick,
The Southern sky was vast,
The romantics have long suffered partings,
Not to mention an autumn this cold and lonely.
Where will I wake up sober after tonight?
Perhaps on the bank of willows,
In the morning breeze beneath the setting moon.
It shall be years after this leave.
In the mean time:
Any good times or pleasant views will be a waste.
Even if there were countless sentiments in my mind,
To whom will I be able to confide?