Half-revealed pomegranates press against red kerchiefs, while agarwood smoke curls beneath green gauze windows. Amidst tall willows and green locust trees, newly emerged cicadas swallow their song, while shared tears fall in twin showers.
Midsummer makes the nights bitterly short; we open the casements to welcome the faint breeze, resting by tall bamboos and behind sparse blinds. The vast heavens pour out a bright moon, and lush woods cast scattered light; after the rain, the courtyard is heavy with the fragrance of lotuses.
The wind blows through ancient trees in a clear-sky rain, and the moon illuminates level sands like summer night frost. For a moment, forget the world beyond, and linger long before the wine cups; pearls beaded upon lotus petals resemble sweat congealed on makeup. A small fan draws a faint breeze, and the leisurely summer days stretch long. After all, in the sixth month by the West Lake, the scenery is unlike any of the other four seasons.
Chapter 89