Just as I joy at noble autumn —
crisp air now so fresh —
I grieve that the mid-autumn moon
knows how to wound my soul.
The wine wears off — memories
of twenty years ago;
startled awake — in exile, three thousand miles away!

Maple leaf bank,
chrysanthemum ford;
I should go buy a bottle of the finest Ah-ning Spring!
The puppets on the curtained stage
have always been unreal;
the dream of Han-tan on the pillow — was it ever true?