DRINKING WITH SHIH LANG-CHUNG, I HEAR A FLUTE ON YELLOW-CRANE TOWER SING

Leaving Wu-ch’ang alone, an exile sent wandering away,
I gaze west toward Ch’ang-an, home nowhere in sight.

On Yellow-Crane Tower, there’s a jade-pure flute singing
in this river town, this fifth month, Plum Blossoms Falling.