A Dream, to the Tune of Riverside Town

For ten years, the living roves and the dead stays.

　　I don’t think about you often,

　　yet cannot forget you either.

With your grave a thousand miles away,

　　where can I tell my loneliness?

Even if we met, how could you recognize me,

　　with dust all over my face

　　and hair like frost?

Last night in a dream I suddenly returned home.

　　By a little window,

　　you were making yourself up.

We looked at each other in silence,

　　with tears coursing down our cheeks.

I can envisage every year the heart-breaking place:

　　the moon shines at night

　　on the mound of short pines.