I can't recall being drunk and leaving the west chamber,
Dreams in spring are short; clouds in fall are easy to scatter.
The moon sinks to my window; I can't sleep, and the screen
Leisurely shows the Mountain Wu's green.
The wine stains on my clothes and words in my poetry,
Every little bit and each line tells the desolate scenery.
The candles are self-pitying and they can feel my pain,
Being helpless at this cold night they shed tears for me in vain.
