A Butterfly Loves Flowers

Ou-yang, Xiu (1007 A.D.-1072 A.D.)

    Who says that we may discard love for long? Whenever Spring arrives, my melancholy remains. Day after day I get drunk in front of flowers not caring that my face pines in the mirror. May I ask the green grass on the riverside or the willow trees on the bank why they bring us new sorrow year after year? As I stand on a small bridge in solitude, the wind fills my sleeves. After I go home, the new moon rises above the woods.