Her skin is as white and smooth as cream.
Her hair, like a dark storm.
She dances to an old mountain tune
Wearing nothing but a white gauze dress.
The cool air blows in through her open windows
While we drink wine, and I write poems on her thigh.
Her husband is a man of many vices;
Spending all his days in the capitol's whore houses.
Some nights we weep for the future,
But we shed no tears tonight -
How much longer can we live like this?
At sixteen,
We made vows of love to each other,
At seventeen,
Her mother had married her off to a fool for money. AD 842