I rarely think of you now,
Not captured by your fate,
But our insignificant meeting’s trace
Has not vanished from my soul.
I purposely avoid your red house,
That red house on its muddy river,
But I know I bitterly disturb
Your sunlit heart at rest.
Though you never bent to my lips,
Imploring love,
Never immortalised my longing
In verse of gold—
I secretly conjure the future,
When evening shines clear and blue,
And foresee the inevitable meeting,
A second meeting, with you.