The candle-holding Dragon curls o’er Polar Gate,
Only at dawn his flickering light will radiate.
Nor sun nor moon will shine there far and nigh,
Only the howling northern wind blows down from the sky.
The snowflakes from north mountains, big as pillows white,
Fall flake on flake upon Yellow Emperor’s Height.
The twelfth moon sees the wife in lonely bower sit,
She will nor sing nor smile, with eyebrows tightly knit.
She leans against the door and looks at passers-by,
Thinking of her husband who with cold might shiver
Beyond the Great Wall and sigh.
When he started, his sword in hand,
To save the borderland.
He left her two white-feathered arrows in a golden quiver.
The pair of arrows mid cobwebs and dust remain.
Her lord who fell in battle won’t come back again.
How could she bear to see the tiger-striped quiver?
She tries to burn it into ashes.
Building a dam, we may stop the flow of Yellow River.
How could the northern wind assuage her grief that gashes!