The wind chime under the eaves tinkles, tinkles,
the Flame Emperor's influences wiped off the earth, gone.
Plantain leaves, hardly green, are slow to report the rain;
lotus flowers, their scarlet faded, cannot withstand the wind.
Several calls of early geese startle my lone pillow;
a whiff of cool air sneaks in through my grille.
The round fan, I pity it, its use gradually lost,
has lately stayed, neglected, in the bamboo box.