Tune: “Phoenix Hairpin”
Pink hands so fine,
Spring paints green willows palace walls cannot confine.
East wind unfair,
Happy times rare.
In my heart sad thoughts throng:
We’ve severed for years long.
Wrong, wrong, wrong!
Spring is as green,
In vain she’s lean,
Her silk scarf soak’d with tears and red with stains unclean.
Peach blossoms fall
Near desert’d hall.
Our oath is still there, lo!
No word to her can go.
No, no, no!——————————————————————————————————————————
Chai Tou Feng
The world callous,
And people mean,
Rain at twilight hastens flowers’ fall.
Morning wind dry,
Smeared tears stains.
Letters about heartaches,
Soliloquyes by the balustrade.
Hard, hard, hard!
Everyone for himself,
Today not yesterday,
Ghost of sickness like swing ropes haunts.
Scared of people inquiring,
Swallowing tears and to look merry pretending.
Hide, hide, hide!——————————————————————————————————————————
Tune: “Telling of Innermost Feelings”
Years ago I travelled ten thousand miles in search of honour;
Riding alone, I guarded the Liangzhou frontier.
Where are my broken dreams of mountain passes and rivers?
Dust has darkened my old stable coat.
The Tartars have not been defeated,
My hair has turned grey first.
My tears flow in vain.
Who would have thought that in this life
My heart should be with the Tian Mountains
And my body grow old by the seashore!
Running into Light Rain on the Road to Sword Gate Pass
On my clothes the dust of travel mingled with wine stains;
a distant journey — no place that doesn’t jar the soul!
And I — am really meant to be a poet?
In fine rain straddling a donkey I enter Sword Gate Pass.
A Trip to Mountain West Village
Don’t laugh because it’s muddy — year-end wine brewed in country homes;
harvests were good — to make the guest linger, fowl and pork plenty.
Mountains multiply, streams double back — I doubt there’s even a road;
willows cluster darkly, blossoms shine — another village ahead!
Pipe and drum sounds tagging me — spring festival soon;
robe, cap of plain and simple cut — they honor old ways here.
From now on, if I may, when time and moon-light allow,
I’ll take my stick and, uninvited, come knock at your gate.
To My Son
(The Last Poem)
That after death everything
Becomes void, I sure perceive;
Yet, not to have seen my country unified is still what makes me grieve.
When the King’s northward-bound Army
The Central Plains does reacquire,
In your ancestral sacrifices
Forget not tell your sire!
Written in a Storm
A bed, motionless, in a lonely village,
For myself I sorrow not.
All I seek’s defence of my country’s frontier,
And to me a station there allot.
Lying in the depth of the night I listen
To the winds blowing the rain,
And iron-clad horses o’er frozen rivers,
As of old, invade my dreams again.