The timer measures; night moves on; pen; thought; late.
Through sickness haze I badly brew some tea; some verses write.
Who, linked tight to Autumn, wears away and finishes,
O withered, yellow flower not yet dead up to this date ?
Version B | Translated by Jennifer Zeng
The clock ticks, the night so long
And my inspiration won't come
Trying to compose a poem in my sickness
While preparing the tea half-heartedly
Oh who will be worn out together with the Autumn?
I, like the withering flower, which has not died yet.
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