I’ve wandered the world for years, considering everything:
We are no sooner met than I must make plans for leaving.
We shake hands tearfully; trees shed the last blossoms remaining.
How many good times are left me? I ask the east wind;
And who will be my friends in what’s left of Spring?
Between the Sui levees the Bian River in March is wide and murmuring.
Southward, to Huzhou, I’m bound, my back to the geese returning.
Looking back to Xuzhou I see the Si and Huai Rivers joining.
I’d send you my lonely tears in the River Huai,
But it doesn’t flow past Huzhou, where I’ll be pining.