Eastward, the road to home is far and away,
Sleeves soaked in tears that continue to run;
Crossing paths on horses, pen and paper scarce,
I entrust you to bring back messages of my safety.

Delicious grape wine in cups that glow in the night,
Urgent summons of the pipa^* come before we drink.
Shall we lay drunk on the battlefield, laugh not,
How many warriors have ever returned in the past?

Hard it is to meet,
even harder it is to part,
Weakening east wind,
therefore withering flowers.
Silkworms keep spinning
till death comes in spring,
Candle tears do not dry
till every bit burnt to the ash.

In the morning mirror, grief arises
from whitening temple hair,
Chanting of verses at night,
brings feelings of chilling moonlight.
From here to paradise,
the way is not too far,
O diligent bluebird,
do bring my messages over to her.

── from Quan Tang Shi
(Complete Collection of Tang Poems)
* A Chinese lute.