WRITTEN BY A DESCENDANT OF THE FOUNDER OF THE SOUTHERN T'ANG DYNASTY
Silent and alone, I ascended the West Cupola.The moon was like a golden hook.In the quiet, empty, inner courtyard, the coolness of early Autumn enveloped the wu-t'ung tree.Scissors cannot cut this thing;Unravelled, it joins again and clings.It is the sorrow of separation,And none other tastes to the heart like this.
Silent and alone, I ascended the West Cupola.The moon was like a golden hook.In the quiet, empty, inner courtyard, the coolness of early Autumn enveloped the wu-t'ung tree.Scissors cannot cut this thing;Unravelled, it joins again and clings.It is the sorrow of separation,And none other tastes to the heart like this.
Silent and alone, I ascended the West Cupola.The moon was like a golden hook.In the quiet, empty, inner courtyard, the coolness of early Autumn enveloped the wu-t'ung tree.
Silent and alone, I ascended the West Cupola.
The moon was like a golden hook.
In the quiet, empty, inner courtyard, the coolness of early Autumn enveloped the wu-t'ung tree.
Scissors cannot cut this thing;Unravelled, it joins again and clings.It is the sorrow of separation,And none other tastes to the heart like this.
Scissors cannot cut this thing;
Unravelled, it joins again and clings.
It is the sorrow of separation,
And none other tastes to the heart like this.