The gentle breeze of second moon has greened the town.
Thousands of your branches swing and sway up and down.
You dance in mist and sleep in rain on Mourning Day.
Ladies pencil their brows to imitate your leaf.
Songstresses sing your song to diminish their grief.
Late autumn frost, why delight in willows’ decay?
The poet writes this lyric to the willow and shows his sympathy to the songstress with willow-like waist.