At the Lake — Remembering My Dead Son, Yü

Years ago, to the winding banks of this lake in spring
I brought my son to play.
The flowers greeted his jade-white skin with smiles;
the clouds floated beside his patterned robe.
He explored the bamboo on the shore across,
and took out a boat to search for fish.
Now I come alone, grieving in my heart;
the misty moon at evening holds my sorrow.
Author of original: 
Pien Kung
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