Li Qingzhao


To the Tune of Lamentation

	It was far into the night when, intoxicated,
	   I took off my ornaments;

	The plum flower withered in my hair.

	Recovered from tipsiness,
	   the lingering smell of wine
	      broke my fond dream.

	Before my dreaming soul could find
	   my way home.

	All is quiet.

	The moon lingers,

	And the emerald screen hangs low.

	I caress the withered flower,

	Fondle the fragrant petals,

	Trying to  bring back the lost time. Lucy Chow Ho