The quiet courtyard fills with greenery:
more than half of spring gone, a time of boundless thoughts.
A fine drizzle brings in the Cold Food Festival,
a slight breeze floats the hai-t'ang petals to earth.
But my love for the flowers has diminished with illness;
the day has grown longer, now that I don't read books.
What thing keeps me company, here on my pillow?
A stick of incense, the smoke curling around the screen.