A slow river flows in Taiyuan, the current always hidden.
And as a winter breeze blows coldly and coldly,
the queen-woman hides her face, the stillness exactly as before.

Oh, slow river, you are so lonely and pale in light now.
Only a flimsy sun to keep you company.
The odd rain cannot hide your water like tenderness.

Drifting rare flowers, relics of the long march float toward your banks, layered into clusters of yellow gold alluvium and images of illusion.

A river I have under my breath, a natural gift from an almighty.
But shared by the old women who pat the lines in our hands and tell our futures, silent flows, each day.