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!
The Junior God
The Double Seventh Eve
The heat will abate
After the evening rain,
Light fragrance and wet dust remain.
Cold turns the dew,
The breeze freshens the courtyard in view.
In the water-clear sky
A hooklike moon hangs high.
Hindered for long, the Weaving Maid sighs,
Now she may go on a date,
Driving her winged wheels in flight.
As far as she stretches her eyes,
She sees fleecy clouds rise
Over the Silver River bright.
Such rendezvous is priceless since old days.
A maiden comes downstairs
To thread a needle in clever ways,
Looking upward, her cloudlike hairs
Caress her powdered face.
Who in the corridor whispers in the shade?
It’s her friend and his maid,
Exchanging golden hairpin and silver case.
They wish lovers may unite
Every year as this night
On earth as in the sky.
To the Tune Groping for Fish
Affection, oh, of what is affection comprised?
Where from and how has it got the power like that
To impel you to live and die just side by side?
Though travelers flying across those terrains wide,
What lots of summers and winters you’ve spent in flight,
While going thro’ common pleasures, parting plight!
No wonder abiding couples are found thereby.
Alone, whit the idea: “No point those troubles taking,
Laboring ‘gaisnt clouds unending, o’er mountains dark’ning,
So lonely, a single shadow alongside casting.”
On the site where Emperor Hanwu crossed the Fen,
No more are there his barges and music of his band.
Remaining dismal woods by a dim mist screened.
“Come back, you spirits!” we call again and again,
While lonely Maid Yao crying ‘mid winds and rains.
With devotion envied by God, you’re not she same
As oriole and swallows mortal, bound to decay.
In order that future poets raise their drinks to you,
The Mound I build here, a memorial to love so true!