Sen tàn cúc lại nở hoa, Sầu dài ngày ngắn đông đà sang xuân. - Nguyễn Du

Just as the lotus wilts, the mums bloom forth—
time softens grief, and winter turns to spring.

West Lake flower garden: a desert, now.
Alone, at the window, I read through old pages.
A smudge of rouge, a scent of perfume, but
I still weep.
Is there a Fate for books?
Why mourn for a half-burned poem?
There is nothing, there is no one to question,
and yet this misery feels like my own.
Ah, in another three hundred years
will anyone weep, remembering my fate?

Now we stand face to face—but who can tell
we shan't wake up and learn it was a dream?