Here in Wu, mulberry leaves lush green,
silkworms have already slept three times.
My family’s stayed behind in Sha-ch’iu,
no one to plant Kuei Mountain fields,
no one to do spring work, and here I am
wandering rivers, more and more dazed.
A south wind carries my heart back, its
flight coming to rest outside the upstairs
drinking-room, where a lone peach stands,
branches in leaf sweeping azure mist.
I planted it there before leaving them,
and now three years have slipped away:
it’s already reached the upstairs windows,
but my travels haven’t brought me back.
Our darling P’ing-yang picks blossoms
and leans against it, picks blossoms
and looks for a father she can’t see,
her tears flowing the way springs flow.
And how fast he’s grown— little Po-ch’in
standing shoulder-high to his big sister!
My two kids under that peach together—
who comforts them with loving hugs now?
The sense of things blank, grief burning
through me day after day, I measure out
silk and write these far-away thoughts
sent traveling the Wen-yang River home.