Back when my face was curtained with bangs,
I would pick flowers, playing by the door.
You rode your stick horse toward me
rounding the bench, knocking off the fresh plums.
Together we lived in Changgan,
the two little ones without suspicion. At 14, I became wife to you,
shy glances hiding my smile.
I dipped my head toward the gloomy walls
of your thousands of gentle calls.
At 15, my expressions relaxed,
and I longed for our dust and ashes to be mingled forever.
I trusted like the one holding a pillar in a storm; why do I still climb, anticipating your visit?
At 16, my lord traveled far from home,
through the Qutang gorge and floods of Yu.
For five months we made no contact, monkeys mourning overhead.
By the doorway are your hesitant footprints, slowly growing in with moss.
The coating is deep, it cannot be swept away—the early Autumn Winds bring leaf-fall. August’s butterflies turn yellow
flying two-by-two to Western orchards.
My heart is wounded at this,
I sit anxiously and my youth fades.
Sooner or later you’ll cross down through Sanba, sending a letter in advance your return.
To reunite with you, no matter the distance—I will go all the way to Changfensha.
Thanks, Ezra Pound
