THOUGHTS OF OLD TIME III
Ten thousand ranges and valleys approach the Jing Gate
And the village in which the Lady of Light was born and bred.
She went out from the purple palace into the desertland；
She has now become a green grave in the yellow dusk.
Her face ！ Can you picture a wind of the spring？
Her spirit by moonlight returns with a tinkling
Song of the Tartars on her jade guitar，
Telling her eternal sorrow.