After the Fresh Blossoms Have Gone (Picking Mulberries)
After the fresh blossoms have gone- West Lake is good.
Tattered scraps of remnant red,
Mist of cotton catkins flying,
Weeping willow by the railing in the wind and sun.
Pipes and song scatter and cease, visitors depart.
I start to feel that spring is empty,
Let the curtain fall back down,
A pair of swallows going home through the drizzly rain.