The sleeves that have been
washed by the silvery water,
filled in the empty mountains ­
it is the jade,
it is the crane.

The moon is a naked body
rising up all alone.
The sweetheart’s affection
is gathering in a cup.

The wind that runs through
the snowfield, climbing over
the mountain top, is playing
the flute.

The sound of the wind chime
at the edge of the roof
is like your footsteps knocking
on the doors.

As the day is over
and the road is rough tonight,
from which road are you
greeting the cold snow?

Now,
the dream that fell
deep into midnight
arrives like a moon.