West wind blows dreams to the river's edge, broken souls fade, fallen flowers drift. Remembering reunions, flowing waters resent the spring tides. Only the green lamp recalls, as people leave, cherishing the flowery morning.
Now cease to speak of the old bridge, who would depict, a few flute notes. A tune of parting sentiment, under the moon's dark midnight. At this moment, countless threads of longing, in the clear night, the sound of the dripping water is distant.
