The Fan
Poet: Ho Xuan Huong
Seventeen, eighteen... what is the proper number?
Never mind, one loves it and will not let it go...
Seventeen, eighteen... what is the proper number?
Never mind, one loves it and will not let it go
One loves it thin splayed in a triangle
Or when gathered in ten, held in the grip of the tenon
The hotter one feels, the greater the delight of its coolness.
One is not weary of it at night and loves it still the day.
The persimmon paste puts a red glow in the cheeks,
Kings and lords, all cherish this little thing.
