The rice fields reach like threaded gold far into the autumn sky;
In the courtyard she stands, as distant as the frozen mountain wind.
Across empty stones the soldier strides, awestruck by the piercing splendour,
Awestruck by that face of a goddess.
Helplessly he admires her majestic grace, and adores her constant dignity.
But alas, cold are the vaults of her memory, unable to feel the flame of his feeling.
To whom, then, does the warrier[sic] burst his sorrow,
To what lonely peak does he wail his lament?
The leaf-fringed windows are closed between us.
The vacant courtyard is silent with dust.
Deep in the night are my yearnings.
Dim are the flickerings of my hopes.