The Untitled Poem
Meeting is hard, parting is harder still,
The east wind grows weak, and a hundred flowers wither.
The silkworm spins its thread until death,
The candle burns to ashes before its tears dry.
At dawn, I fear my cloud-like hair will fade,
At night, I chant, feeling the moonlight's chill.
The path to Penglai is not far from here,
May the bluebird diligently bring news of you...