The plum blossom sleeps beneath the evening window

The lamplight once again supports my figure as I draw closer to you.

Mother, the butterflies you embroider come in pairs,

Lotus flowers bloom, dragonflies tremble,

Each stitch of embroidery deepens the water's color by a layer.

You teach me to draw lines with fiction on the embroidery cloth,

On the pattern of sea waves, a scene worth repeating,

A small boat with white sails raised,

The tide on my fingertips unfolds a little towards the distance.

Between mountains, I fill in the sunset,

A seagull carries the echo as it glides by,

I move my stitches step by step. Mother,

That white cloud is not yet mended, how dare I be tired?

—The roof is embroidered with a thin layer of frost,

Mother, mother, the wind blows lower and lower,

In the palm of my hand, I hold a handful of time that vanishes,

The plum blossom sleeps beneath the evening window,

When the moon comes, it gently sways...