Classic Poem

My second daughter, I loved her so much!
To the age of six we loved and nurtured her.
Holding her, I watched her nibble fruit;
putting her on my lap, I taught her to chant poems.
In the morning she would rise, and imitate
elder sister's make-up,
scrambling to the mirror for a peek.
She had a liking for silk and satin
which our family, poor, could not afford.
Alas! For years I was disappointed,
traveling crooked roads in rain and snow!
At evening I'd return to her happy welcome:
my sad feelings would always turn to joy.
Why is it that one morning of illness,
also a time of crisis in the world,
we heard the shocking news and then she died
with no time for medicine to be applied?
In haste we prepared a flimsy coffin,
and escorted her in tears to a distant slope.
Far, far, already hard to find;
pain, pain, still I bitterly grieve.
And I remember last year's spring,
the flowers opened by the pond in the old garden.
She dragged me over beneath the trees
and had me pluck a good branchful!
This year, the flowers bloom again
and I live a traveler by a distant shore.
The rest of the family lives, you alone are dead:
as I watch the flowers tears in vain now fall.
One cup of wine does not comfort me:
evening's curtain flaps in chilly wind.