I'd never been in play long enough for the flowers to die in the dressing room.
Tz'u No. 18
by Li Ching Chao
To the tune of "Intoxicated in the Shadow of Flowers"
Thin mist, dense clouds, a grief-stricken day;
auspicious incense burns in the gold animal.
Once again, it is the joyous mid-autumn festival,
but a midnight chill
touches my jade pillow and silk bed-screen.
I drink wine by the eastern fence in the yellow dusk.
Now a dark fragrance fills
my sleeves and makes me spin.
The bamboo blinds sway in the west wind.
And I am even thinner than a yellow flower.