Classic Poem

Brushing away the dust, I opened the broken box
and suddenly held a friend's poem in my hand.
Touching this paper, I felt he was still alive —
but then remembered his death, how hard it would be to find him.
I recalled when we were in Suchou,
how everyone praised his literary talent.
In conversation, he analyzed profound principles
and sent forth fragrant words from his heart.
At that time, I was staying in the northern quarter
in a quiet studio overlooking a pond.
Burning orchid-lamps, we invited the moon to join us;
drinking wine, we plucked the strings of our lute.
Who would have thought that for another evening of joy
we would have to wait for thousands of years!
Now your wandering spirit is far away in darkness,
and only cold words are left, in your own hand.
The dusty ink still gives off a light fragrance,
the paper is torn, but still has luster.
As I linger over the powerfully brushed characters
I recall your voice, chanting poems out loud.
But I never had a chance to reply to this poem:
your deep feeling for me: I have betrayed it!
I finish reading with a long sigh of grief
and the wind in the forest echoes my sadness.
I wonder: on the day you wrote this poem,
could you have foreseen that I would feel this way?