To the tune of "Rinsing Silk Stream" Let not the deep cup be filled with rich, amber-colored wine; My mind was eased of sorrow even before I was drunk. Distant bells have already echoed in the evening breeze. My dream is broken as the scent of incense vanishes. Too small, the hairpin of the gold of warding-off-cold loosens its hold of my tresses. I awake to find myself blankly facing the red flickering glow of the candle.