Southern Song

Li Qingzhao | Poetry

A river of stars turns in the sky.
On earth, curtains are let down.

My pillow, my mat are cold
and marked with tears.
Loosening my silk robe, I rise
to ask the night of its passing.

The green stitching
of the lotus pods is frayed
and the leafy golds faded.

The weather is the same as before,
my clothes the same.
Only I have changed.