Putting a bunch of lilies 　　into the deep blue sea 　　and following it with my eyes, 　　I know it drifts out to the east. 　　 　　It goes across the ocean, 　　floating on the spray. 　　It goes to the Yangtse --- 　　my mother river, your grave. 　　 　　It seems so tiny in the waves, 　　but I know you could see it, 　　because it’s your favorite. 　　because　you are the lily! 　　 　　The first time I saw you on the stage, 　　you played a country girl in pure white, 　　like a delicate lily in the garden, 　　like a pretty fairy from the sky. 　　 　　Astonished by your lily-white beauty, 　　I looked with fixed eyes. 　　Your voice was so sweet, 　　so pure, like wine. 　　 　　“Why are you always in white?” I asked. 　　“I like lily, its pure-white. 　　It can not bear a wee bit of dirt. 　　If stained, it would rather die.” 　　 　　You jumped down into the Yangtse 　　on a windy, rainy night. 　　For the unsullied pure, 　　You laid down your life. 　　 　　Now, you can see the flowers 　　in the depths of the river. 　　In a sense, I thank the Death 　　who keeps your beauty　forever. 　　 　　A cool breeze comes from the sea. 　　gaze into the distance. 　　Where are you, my dear friend? 　　Where are you, my pure white lily? 　　 　　(Zhu, one of my best friends, an actress of Chinese Traditional Opera, committed suicide during the Cultural Revolution.)

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