Cold Food Day in the Southern Land Zhao Ding At thatched cottages in lonely village the poor Mark the day with willow twigs put up on the door. The southern country knows not the forbidden fires, Still old and young visit the graveyard of their sires. No sacrifice is offered to imperial tombs; Along the mountain path only the pear tree blooms. After a cup of wine I'll lie on mossy ground, Careless at citywall of evening bugle’s sound.