A flock of maidens are playing around in the setting sun;
A breeze comes up, filling the road with their fragrance.
Their skirts are decorated with the butterflies of gold;
The jade Mandarin ducks are stuck into their hairs.
Waited aside the slave-girls are dressed-up in red gauze;
Eunuchs wear trousers of purple brocade.
The maidens come to look at him who has lost his way;
With grey hair—his heart ties itself up in knots.
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Ron