To the tune of "Bodhisattva Aliens"

Soft breezes, mild sunshine,
 spring is still young.
The sudden change of the light
 brightened my spirit.

But upon awakening from slumber,
 I felt the chill air;
The plum flower withered in my hair.

Where can I call my native land?
Forget - I cannot, except in wine
 when I drown my care.

Incense was lighted when I went to sleep;
Though the embers are now cold,
 the warmth of wine still burns on.