Green willows and fragrant grass by the posthouse road
Where the young man left me without a pang.
An unfinished dream at the fifth watch bell
The sorrow of parting under the blossoms in a third month rain.

Insensitive misses susceptible's bitterness,
Whose every inch turns into a thousand myriad strands.
The sky's edge, earth's corner — sometime they come to an end;
It's just this longing that is never done.