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 t… - Nguyễn Du

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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?