“West Lake flower garden: a desert, now.Alone, at the window, I read through old pages.A smudge of rouge, a scent of perfume, butI still weep.Is there a Fate for books?Why mourn for a half-burned poem?There is nothing, there is no one to question,and yet this misery feels like my own.Ah, in another three hundred yearswill anyone weep, remembering my fate?”