The Cold Food Festival,
a quiet and peaceful spring day.
From the jade burner rises the up-curling smoke
of the dying incense.
Dreams cam back to me as I slumbered
on the hill-shaped pillow which concealed
my hairpins with flowery ornaments.
Sea swallows have not returned;
people amuse themselves with the game
of vying green herbs.
Plum blooms are withered, willows bear catkins;
Twilight falls, light drops of rain
Wet the swing in the garden.
tr.by Lucy Chow Ho