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.