Where I mourn stolen love,
Plum blossoms fall,
Spring’s beauty fades,
And longing is sown amidst nightly rain.
Seeking divination,
I ask the spring tide’s swift descent.
How much of the past romance remains,
Like a fleeting dream?
Night after night,
I dream of fragrant silk…
Tsangyang Gyatso (1683-1706)
