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On winter nights the night chill makes the hours seem long; I sit lost in thought for a long while in the northern hall.

The wells are sealed with ice, and moonlight enters the inner chamber; the golden lamp, blue-green with condensation, shines upon sorrowful sobs.

With the heavenly eye unobstructed, the golden lamp goes out; the sobbing grows more intense.

With the heavenly ear unobstructed, I cover my tears and listen to your song.

With the heavenly eye unobstructed, I watch the movement of the heavens; the song has its sound, and I have my feelings.

With the heavenly ear unobstructed, I hear the movement of your feelings and voice; the two are in harmony, neither contrary to the other.

If a single word does not enter my heart, let a thousand melodies from you send the dust from the rafters flying.

The candle-dragon dwells within the Gate of Cold, yet its radiance still opens like dawn.

Why does the light of the sun and moon not reach this place? Only the north wind comes roaring down from the heavens.

On Mount Yan, snowflakes are as large as mats, each one blown down upon the Xuanyuan Terrace.

In Youzhou, a longing wife in the twelfth month stops singing and ceases to smile, her brows crushed by grief.

With the heavenly eye unobstructed, I lean against the gate and gaze at travelers,

thinking of you suffering in the bitter cold at the Great Wall—it is truly enough to grieve. Amitābha Buddha.

When we parted, you took your sword to save the frontier, leaving behind this tiger-patterned golden quiver.

Within it were a pair of white-feathered arrows; spiders have spun webs over them, and dust has gathered.

With the heavenly eye unobstructed, I see the arrows lying unused; you have now died in battle and will not return.

With the heavenly eye unobstructed, I cannot bear to see this; I burn it, and it becomes ash.

Even the Yellow River could be dammed with handfuls of earth; the hatred brought by the north wind, rain, and snow is difficult to cut short.