To the tune of "Rinsing Silk Stream"

Let not the deep cup be filled
 with rich, amber-colored wine;
My mind was eased of sorrow
 even before I was drunk.
Distant bells have already echoed
 in the evening breeze.

My dream is broken
 as the scent of incense vanishes.
Too small, the hairpin of the gold
 of warding-off-cold
 loosens its hold of my tresses.

I awake to find myself blankly facing
 the red flickering glow
 of the candle.