Perfume blows from the kingfisher
Green trees. Bright as targets in
Their new dyed skirts, beautiful girls,
Hands joined, scamper amongst the
Odorous blossoms. Green shadows,
Red silhouettes. They lie on
Fine Persian rugs. They put flowers
In their hair to enhance their
Beauty. They look sidelong in
Their phoenix mirrors. I only
Fear that their painted faces
May vanish, and the spring evening
Will be unworthy of its
Name and spoiled of all charm.
In reality—
On the green moss, after the rain,
I have seen a few spots of
Scarlet. I opened my door
And went out for a stroll. Coming back,
I leaned long on the vermilion balcony.
The autumn fruits, hanging here
And there, are covered with the faint
Frost of ripeness. Their delicate
Veins of rose brought back those painted
Faces. Men, in moments of
Idleness, occupy their minds
With the vacuity of
Has been benefitted by the
Presence of a woman? Still
My lewd heart yearns for the past.
Next year, once more, the Spring wind will
Start me thinking amorous thoughts.
OU YANG HSIU