A Lonely Traveller

I've been sitting here for four afternoons;

No one walks past, not to mention the shuffle of footsteps.
In the loneliness, lacy ankle-high ferns grew to reach over my shoulders. covering me for no reason at all.
If the water babling is a memory that is hard to forget,
I can only let it be written on a stationary cloud.
Twenty paces to the south stands a smiling dandelion;
A breeze blows its pollen onto my bamboo hat.
Ah, what can my hat ...

While I'm passing through south-east China,
the pretty faces waiting in the season bloom and fade like lotus flowers.

The east wind doesn't come; the willow catkins in March don't fly--
your heart is like a small lonely town.
When there is no footstep on a bluestone street at dusk--
the spring curtains don't draw open in March.
Your heart is a small tightly-closed window.

The clip clop of my horse is a beautiful mistake: ...

If you water a plant, it will grow flowers.
If there are flowers, there will be bees and butterflies.
If there are bees and butterflies, the world will be beautiful.

You simply went by, West Wind --
You simply blew out my candle and went by,
leaving a page not yet finished and the volume still in my hand,
leaving a room in darkness contrasted against the deep blue outside the window.
When a tung oil leaf floats down like the echo of the year long past,
like the book leaf gently closed by my fingers,
When the sentiments of young love at night condense in my eyes for lack of candlelight,
...

In a small bluestone town lives my mistress,
and I leave her nothing but a furrow of marigolds and a high high window.
Perhaps, a long blue sky may beam some loneliness through the window ...
And perhaps, the marigolds are good at waiting.
I guess, loneliness and waiting are good for a woman.

Thus, whenever I go there, I always wear a blue shirt--
I want her to sense it's the season or the returning of a migrating bird
...