Li Qingzhao


To the Tune of Rinsing Silk Stream

	Let not the deep cup be filled
	   with rich, amber-colored wine;

	My mind was eased of sorrow
	   even before I become intoxicated.

	Distant bells have already echoed
	   in the evening breeze.

	My dream is broken
	   as the scent of incense vanishes.

	Too small, the hairpin of the gold
	   of warding-of-cold
	      loosens its hold of my tresses.

	I awake to find myself blankly facing
	   the read flickering glow
	      of the candle Lucy Chow Ho