Skipping stones along spring river,
One, two, three — finally touching lone pavilion.
Beneath my feet lie petite sprinkle of flowers.
Clear willow branch brushing against my shoulder,
the clouds shriek, heaven downpour, earth sorrow,
man can no longer borrow.
Our wine-cup has long grown old,
promise has long been sold.
On my last breath,
I skip these stones, where our promise last postponed.