Bingbing, Remembering You

Again it is winter—the season for missing you. The silent wind threads through the noiseless rain. Does the winter's chill freeze every living thing, Or have all living things closed the windows of their hearts? This icy winter day is like those northern years of ours— Those bitter, romantic northern years of long ago. I always felt that the chain of footprints we left on the snow Would stretch on and on into the far distance; I always felt that your glistening tears on that snowy night Would forever hang upon your lashes and congeal in my heart; I always felt that that long, mellow song Would forever flow quietly through our intertwined hands; I always felt that once we stepped out of that cold night, We could forever trace our way back to a day of rosy clouds and golden mist… But then the roar of the train drowned out your grieving sobs, And the endless yellow sand brushed away the bloom of your youth— What kind of you, and what kind of me, Stepped out from those barren years? A lone wild goose, against the vast, blood‑red northern sunset, Cries aloud and soars on high. Is this, perhaps, the northern obsession of our yesteryears? I once dreamed that that world of red and gold would embrace us both; I once dreamed that your fluttering, colourful tresses would be mine… Though in those days we were no longer children, Still it was our season of many dreams… On the snow, beneath the clear sky, That solitary girl in her crimson coat— In my youthful memory, she has never faded. Now that this chilly winter wind rises again, Why can I not see the six‑pointed snowflakes dancing anew? Have those merry sprites of rain, which once whirled so joyfully upon her red coat, Now spun and risen forever, Drifting far, far away from me? When shall we walk together again, in this winter wind, Along the ancient course of the Yellow River, To seek the musings of the barren hills, And to listen to the longing of the northern dusk…?