To Guo Xiang

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From dawn to dusk I’m drunk, singing songs of myself,
lovesick with every new spring.
Out in the rain, there’s a messenger with letters,
and under my window, someone with a broken heart.
Rolling up beaded blinds, I see mountains;
sorrows renew themselves like fragrant grass.
Since the day we parted, at your feasts
how often has the rafter dust fallen?

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