/ Twisting River
In the distance where my gaze breaks, the emperor’s emerald carriage passed.
In silence I listen, the singing grief of midnight ghosts.
The golden chariot never returned her, enchantment who enthralled a city.
Jade halls still part the waves in Lower Park.
In death, I will remember cranes crying at Huating Pavilion.
In old age, I mourn the imperial palace, weeping after its bronze camels.
Heaven became a wasteland. And though my heart foundered —
against the anguish of spring, meaningless.
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