Spring blossom as old willow rejuvenate. Our cup of wine has wilt since last autumn, leaving behind only dried wine-cup. Old feathered red moon grazed past fog, I sat by the cold dreary stone. Like last summer, I held a wine-cup in hand. Kneeled, a splatter of bitter taste splash your grave, I still remember our vow last autumn. The two cup were filled last autumn, this spring, I can only pour one.