To the tune of "Wu Ling Spring"

Wind ceased, the dust is scented
 with the fallen flowers.
Though day is getting late, I am too weary
 to attend to my hair.
Things remain as ever, yet he is here no more,
 and all is finished.
Fain would I speak, but tears flow first.

They say that at the Twin Brooks
 spring is still fair.
I, too, wish to row a boat there.
But I am afraid that the little skiff
 on the Twin Brooks
Could not bear the heavy load of my grief.