"Ballad of the Bitter Wife" Part II: The Story Is No Story, the Bitter Wife No Bitter Wife — How Many Can Understand

2006/3/6 11:28:55

Note: Fifty ci poems form one grand story. To understand it fully, please start from No. I.

(Continued from Part I)

XXXIV

Growing old drunk in the mortal dust, not from wine — say not the yellow blooms are thin.
Cold mist enters clear autumn; alone I lean on Blue Bridge — eyes full of waves, the same as before.
At the ferry, pale desolation wrinkles in the wind; scattered and fallen — who goes first, who last?
Chasing water, sinking deeper into mud; mingled bones and ash — sharing with you this twilight.
"Zui Hua Yin"

XXXV

Red leaves fly at dawn over the deep courtyard; azure clouds at dusk encircle empty eaves.
Unfinished poems, no wild geese to send south — forever drunk on pale-gold aged wine.

Mock not my love's wild, obsessive weight — you should pity the cold dew, the cruel frost.
What I dread most as evening falls: the moon's slender hook — it pierces straight through bone and soul.
"Xi Jiang Yue"

XXXVI

How many cold rains have aged this autumn heart — just drink, and sing no more alone.
Wind comes; cold chrysanthemums scatter — three or four petals fall upon the Yu-qin.

Sorrow uncut, dreams hard to find, wine still poured.
A jade face — who cherishes it? Green waters, empty waves; dark hair with no hairpin.
"Su Zhong Qing"

XXXVII

Drifting like clouds and duckweed; feelings desolate — forced joy cannot keep its savor.
The jade censer's smoke grows cold, wounding the soul still more; bound by sun and moon — brows wilt, eyes droop.

Icy strings plucked in resentment; cloud-coiled hair snapped in rage — the paired brocade letters, burned.
A silver hairpin piercing flesh as if numb to all — tears congeal with blood; the soul melts, the heart dies.
"Que Qiao Xian"

XXXVIII

The tower holds a half-moon; the autumn pond in disarray — beneath old eaves, the paired swallows gone.
Late night, wind weary, alone without sleep — old memories drift far with the clouds.

Night air cool as water, mist bewildering as illusion — yet how does it match the thinness of his love?
Heaven tilts; fierce rain falls without cause — inch by inch, longing snaps.
"He Sheng Chao"

XXXIX

Softly plucking the yao-qin, luring a clear breeze to peek through the door; the vermilion curtain stirs. Holding a candle by the window — a slender moon, sparse stars lock the heavenly vault.
Swaying parasol-tree, shattered shadows; the pool lies still — a secret fragrance drifts from afar.
Drinking alone; half-rolled silk curtains — the quilt draped aslant beside the pillow.

No dreams — the second watch freezes.
Old memories ambush the startled soul; old sorrows, new agonies — sinful love beyond control.
Trapped in the mortal illusion, the barrel of life and death.
A broken mirror — who can bear to face it? The lone traveler, weary — buried in what grave?
Again toward dawn — the Milky Way sinks; ten thousand cries of grief.
"An Xiang"

XL

Just as early autumn's sparse rain drips at dusk — one leaf falls from the tall parasol tree.
Leaning on carved railings, gazing far: western hills stream with color; northbound geese cut across the sky.
The character "hai" — high and low — gradually fades, drifting away without a trace.
White mist rises at the horizon; eyes filled with haze.

This is the most soul-consuming moment — do not recall the dusty world's affairs, lest feelings grow too thick.
Turn and lower the vermilion curtain; tenderly light pine incense.
Purple smoke coils, swaying light and shadow — as if a floating dream; wild visions strike both eyes.
Alarmed, hands shield the face — there, plain as day: flesh-clinging corpse-worms once again.
"Ba Sheng Gan Zhou"

XLI

A sorrowful heart faces pale-gold wine all day; rising late, loathing the grooming.
Suddenly seeing fresh chrysanthemums in the garden — startled to know the Double Ninth draws near.

A thousand autumns, drunk together; a fair face invites resentment, dark hair summons frost.
Though pellets leap and arrows fly — the passionate heart remains forlorn.
"Chao Zhong Cuo"

XLII

Wisps of smoke rise; shimmering water stirs — the farewell song once sung in years long past.
Autumn's wind now calls again, sending a thousand miles; drawing the toad-moon's rippling light.
At bow and shore — snow-white silk and silver gauze veil the myriad shapes in haze.
Like tangled thoughts — the hidden tidings within, kept from anyone's gaze.

Forlorn.
Heaven and earth steeped in sorrow — through all eternity, how can it ever be destroyed? For love, one cannot let go.
Drunk or waking, alike trapped on the journey — sighing, turning back; dreams were empty brews all along.
The Milky Way loses its oar; looking up, not a single beam — only the sound of swelling waves.
Grief comes and goes; at parting, tears sway — the same appearance as ever.
"Cui Lou Yin"

XLIII

West wind shears to shreds; wild leaves like sorrows drift in ten thousand flecks.
White mist, cold sand — the moon rises, startling crows from a thousand trees.

Soul-rending, desolate rain — seeming to leave yet returning, invading the dream's journey.
Pearl-tears fall without reason — chasing waves through how many autumns?
"Jian Zi Mu Lan Hua"

XLIV

A curtain of spring dreams, secretly locking the apricot-blossom room.
A lovely moon gladly visits the window — illumining moth-brows, red lips, dark-green hair.
At dawn, a gentle rain; drop by drop, feeling deepens.
Bathing at the Jade Pool — green jade afloat; a faint smile that topples the immortal clans.

The soul jolts, the illusion shatters — still facing a candle before the wind.
A lone shadow mingled with cool smoke seeps through the wall — heart and liver startled to the touch.
Pounding the head, clawing the arms — shrieking, yet no sound escapes.
Walking corpse-flesh — to whom does it belong at last? Life and death: the cosmos-prison.
"Mo Shan Xi"

XLV

A thousand meetings, each wrung from anguished dreams.
Long has it been known: the love-obsessed are born of heaven's own seed.
Sinful fates entangle, bitterly binding past lives and present.
Who can fathom it? Even tearing this broken body apart — what use?

Hurling tears at the endless sky, standing frozen at the precipice's edge, wild wastes stretch vast, vanishing into heaven's jar.
A cursed fate — is it only the province of beauties? From azure heights to Yellow Springs, the soul's road winds long — no body fit to share it.
Where else to go? Shadows in the mortal world, wavering — west wind flares in sudden fury; the setting sun freezes solid.
"Dong Xian Qu"

XLVI

Cold walls, frigid courtyard; dew-leaves, frost-flowers — heavy curtains cannot resist the wind's fury.
Clouds gather in deep autumn weather; from dawn to dusk, curtains hang.
Soul-rending rain comes in its time — night fills the window; shadows turn, sounds tangle.
The bitter pounding of dreams — rising, draping a robe, facing the mirror: lotus-tears glitter.

Unfinished love ascends to the azure void.
Only a shell remains — in this life, no more sorrow, no more joy.
Suddenly seizing the golden blade — ten thousand strands of dark hair, slashed in hate.
The Milky Way moon sways, stars tremble; dark thunder flies — hailstones pour unchecked.
Abruptly all turns silent; closing this moment — the heart, dazed, has not yet noticed.
"Sheng Sheng Man"

XLVII

Shearing away all the longing-locks.
Scattered strands — seizing the soul, scattering the spirit; the heart of love, cut inch by inch.
Always the obsessed one, aged by dreams; once she faced the great river's surging waves.
The Magpie Bridge collapses; earthly roots impossible to pull free.
Tossing and turning through a thousand incarnations, still no regret — departing one by one, how many cloud-and-mountain partings? Green bamboo tears transform into butterflies.

Tonight, the yao-qin itself is shattered.
Hurling Qing-Shang notes — the celestial canopy jolts; stars swing, the moon sways.
The Milky Way's dike bursts, pouring bitter rain — it would drown the entire cosmos.
Nothing left to say — wandering thoughts fold emptily upon themselves.
A courtyard of bare branches rings in the wind — that rustling — as if parasol-tree leaves once more.
The tree fills again with birds; their song, delightful.
"Jin Lü Qu"

XLVIII

The central courtyard, white — again the moon is full tonight.
Faint clouds, pale — the Milky Way spans the sky; shallow waters flow west, waves leave no trace.
Parasol-tree branches drip with dew — lightly dampening mossy old stones.
The tower's mottled shade sweeps a withered pool; ruined chrysanthemums and broken lotus heap in darkness.

Threads of hate, a thousand feet.
Bound to the parting dream at Blue Bridge — what is gone cannot be held.
Ten thousand strands of obsessive love — what do they gain at last?
After so many frosts, a hundred wind-storms — in the end, for whom does each one turn white?
Pitiable, the travelers of this world.

Deep silence.
Leaning on the steps, standing.
Suddenly bursting into mad laughter, clawing the earth — ten fingers turned crimson.
A full head of dark hair, buried north of the pavilion.
Gradually, both cheeks brim with tears; eyes blur, the heart goes still.
Bewildered, near dawn — toward the horizon, cold mist weaves.
"Lan Ling Wang"

XLIX

The road to the Yellow Springs, thronged — where to entrust this walking corpse?
Paired brocade letters burned to tears, a hundred thousand threads, buried in deep mud — destitute, becoming a fresh ghost.
Love like water, impossible to gather; living as if dead, waking yet still drunk, aware yet still in doubt.
Brewing dreams, fermenting sorrow — the bitter, salty, sour taste — how many souls can know it?
Burying parting-grief by the Long Pavilion; hanging longing from the old tree.
In the end, for whose sake — this whole-hearted obsession?

Entering the mortal world's stage.
Astonishing heaven and earth — the great Peng spreads its wings.
Seizing storm and thunder, bearing eternal sin — and never repenting.
Shaking out silk robes, standing upon the rainbow cloud — spirits roused, ambitions soaring to the highest sky.
The Milky Way plunges; the star-dike cracks; the sun's track bends; longitude and latitude spin — the cosmos turns.
Mingling in turbid filth, breathing in the boundless ether of the vaulted sky, surging against towering crags — sending whale-waves to overturn the sea.
Raising the cup with a soaring song — one toast shared through all eternity.
"Liu Zhou Ge Tou"

L

Swallows first returning to the old eaves, calling the clear morning to look their way.
Pale light trails — scraping shadows, drifting smoke; drop by drop, congealing into clear dew.
Tender gosling-yellow — jade boughs bursting green; faint fragrance secretly chases the wind-strings' dance.
Phantasmal purple drifts, red ripples shimmer — in the haze, as if hearing whispered words.

Shorn hair still entangling; thirty years of butterfly dreams — where carriage-dust rises in tumult.
At the House of Joyful Spring — smiling faces greet each guest; accustomed to idle men and bitter women.
Dreading dawn and dusk, leaning alone on carved railings — never any tears; a withered soul given up to emptiness.
The jade censer cold; the vermilion curtain half-rolled — a light mist, arriving without warning.

Blue Bridge's waves have aged; on the far bank, boats lie athwart; distant hills wear a dusting of snow.
And everywhere the eye falls — young peach blossoms, blazing bright; teasing with color, playing with hues, mingled scents parting paths of fragrance — as if a reunion from years gone by.
The slanting sun about to rest; a lone sail gradually entering — bewildered, gazing forlorn with nothing to cling to, suddenly startled awake: jade-green on all sides, feathered wings soaring.
Golden clouds, a few, whirl into ten thousand horses galloping with thunder — crimson dust buries the sky.

Spring chill hangs from the moon; wine warms the long night — yet the fourth watch brings more rain.
Drop by drop — impossible to stand by the west window.
Holding a candle before the screen: fragrant snow etches green; drunken plum-blossoms lie across plain silk.
Dimly, almost touchable — the lotus-heart's secrets; the yao-qin's lingering stone-echoes, faint and far.
As if hearing once more the longing-verses of long ago.
Pale light creeps back at the eastern corner — hurriedly arranging what remains of rouge — the gentleman caller summons her forth.
"Feng Le Lou"