When the beautiful woman was here, the hall was filled with flowers,
Now the beautiful woman’s gone, the bed is lying empty.
On the bed, the embroidered quilt is rolled up: no-one sleeps,
Though three years have now gone by, I think I smell that scent.
The scent is finished but not destroyed,
The woman’s gone and does not come.
Yearning yellows the falling leaf,
White dew beads the green moss.