To the Tune “Qing Ping Yue: Melody of Serenity”
Zhao Lingzhi, 1064—1134
清平乐
赵令畤〔宋代〕
春风依旧，著意隋堤柳。
搓得鹅⼉黄欲就，天⽓清明时候。
去年紫陌青门，今宵⾬魄云魂。
断送⼀⽣憔悴，只消⼏个黄昏？
On the Sui Embankment, spring wind
hasn’t changed a bit, kneading
willow sprouts till they turn light yellow,
the texture of a duck’s chest furs.
Last year, we walked on the purplish
pathway to the city gate.
Tonight, the clouds after rain
assemble a loose apparition of you.
How many more sunsets
can a heart endure? Expectancy
thins me, and the twilight can kill a man.
To the Tune “Ta Suo Xing: Treading on Purple Nutsedge”
Wu Wenying, 1205-1260, Southern Song Dynasty
踏莎⾏
吴⽂英〔宋代〕
润⽟笼绡，檀樱倚扇。绣圈犹带脂浅。
榴⼼空叠舞裙红，艾枝应压愁鬟乱。
午梦千⼭，窗阴⼀箭。⾹瘢新褪红腕。
隔江⼈在⾬声中，晚风菰叶⽣秋怨。
The jade’s sleek skin leaks
scrubbed light : bare-arm, chiffon
swathed : a quarter slice of cherry
shaken by its own reddening : lips
concealed behind a folding fan’s
unfolding : silk scarf dim-scented
with rouge powder : skirt in dance
pleated by the wind’s many hands :
tucked like the many hearts of one
pomegranate : a stalk of mugwort
quenches the black hair’s disquiet—
Noon’s porous dream that implores
the diminishment of the distance :
ten thousand bodies of water closing :
all happened : when the shade
of an orchid shifts from the right side of
the casement to the left : the wrist’s
ligature mark slowly disappearing :
its bracelet remains : you stand on
the other bank of the river across a veil
of loud rain : listen : the bulrushes
lean back toward their own coldness :
giving birth to a real autumn—
To the Tune “Liu Shao Qing: Green Willow Sprouts”
Liu Chenweng, 1232—1297, Southern Song Dynasty
柳梢青·春感
刘⾠翁〔宋代〕
铁马蒙毡，银花洒泪，春⼊愁城。
笛⾥番腔，街头戏⿎，不是歌声。
那堪独坐青灯。想故国、⾼台⽉明。
辇下风光，⼭中岁⽉，海上⼼情。
In this occupied district, soldiers in wool felts
ride iron-clad horses
through the burnt woods. Fireworks toss
silver sparks like tear streaks of night sky.
Spring came regardless to this city
assembled with skeletons. Foreign melodies
come from our flutes, each drum beat
followed by a shriek. Those are not songs.
The lamp flickers green. I sit thinking of the lost
capital: high terrace where the moon shines.
My people, where are you?
Years in the mountains. Hearts on the sea.
