The cassia hall has collapsed,
the lotus pond, all withered;
the old paths wander, leading the visitor astray.
There is an archery range, but in the spring breeze
who rides his horse here anymore?
There is a stage, but beneath the moon at night
only the crows sing there.
Still, the occasional visitor does come to gaze at the flowers,
although no revelers call out for another cup of wine.
So many noble mansions have fallen into ruins:
why is it that I linger at this place alone?