Bai Juyi
Bai Juyi (chino: 白居易, pinyin: Bai Juyi, Wade-Giles: Po Chü-i) (Xinzheng, Henan, China; 772 - 846) es un escritor chino de la dinastía Tang. Influido por el movimiento a favor de la lengua antigua de Han Yu, quiso regresar a una poesía más directa, más sencilla; se inspiró en canciones populares y se dice que se deshacía de todos los poemas que sus sirvientes no entendieran.
Bai Juyi nació en una familia pobre aunque culta de Xinzheng. A los diez años fue enviado por su familia a estudiar cerca de Chang'an. Aprobó el examen imperial en el 800.
Igual que Wang Wei, Bai Juyi pasó con gran éxito los exámenes imperiales. Más afín con los cargos administrativos, de los que a veces le apartaron los lutos familiares y los exilios causados por influjo de enemigos poderosos, llegó a ser prefecto de ciudades importantes como Hangzhou y Suzhou, y al llegar a la edad de retiro tuvo una pensión del estado. Desde sus inicios su poesía gozó de gran popularidad y fue el poeta Tang más célebre de su tiempo, no sólo en China sino también en Japón.
Hierbas
La hierba va cubriendo la llanura.
Se seca un año y al otro florece.
Los incendios la queman, no la extinguen.
Vive de nuevo al viento en primavera.
Su olor lejano invade antiguas sendas.
Su verdor llega a ciudades en ruinas.
Veo irse otra vez al noble amigo.
Todo se llena de un sentir de adioses.
Traducción de Rodrigo Escobar Holguín
Pernoctando en Xingyang
Junto a esta población de Xingyang he crecido.
Aún niño salí cantando de mi aldea.
Cuarenta largos años han pasado,
hasta hoy que de nuevo en Xing Yang anochezco.
Cuando me fui tendría unos once o doce años,
y ya cincuenta y seis cumplo muy pronto.
Al recordar el tiempo de mi infancia
todo surge de nuevo ante mis ojos.
Las casas viejas desaparecieron;
ya nadie hay de los míos en el pueblo.
Cómo es posible que esto sea un mercado,
que la loma sea llano, que el llano sea monte.
Sólo los ríos Chen y Wei aún fluyen
impasibles y verdes como entonces.
Traducción de Rodrigo Escobar Holguín
Me acuerdo de un poema de Bai Juyi, un poeta chino del siglo IX. Conoció el poder como gobernador de dos provincias durante la dinastía Tang, y el exilio.
Uno de sus mejores poemas, Cantando solo en la montaña, comienza con estos versos:
No hay hombre sin locura.
La mía es escribir poemas.
Su obra es tersa, clara, profunda. Cuentan de él que, antes de publicarlas, le leía a su sirvienta sus poesías y las destrozaba si ésta no las comprendía. Hacia el final de su vida escribió este poema:
MI GRUESA TÚNICA NUEVA
La tela de Kuilin es nieve blanca;
el algodón de Wu es nube blanda.
Resistente tela; gruesa manta,
así es mi túnica nueva.
¡Y qué bien me abriga!
Me la pongo de madrugada,
y estoy sentado así hasta la noche;
entonces me cubro con ella
y duermo cómodamente
hasta que despunta el alba.
He olvidado el riguroso invierno;
ahora ya me encuentro
en la benigna primavera.
En la noche avanzada,
viene a mi mente un pensamiento.
Palpando mi ropa,
me paseo por la alcoba.
Un caballero de verdad
debe preocuparse por todos.
¡Cómo puedo contentarme
con mi propia felicidad!
Ojalá se hiciera una túnica
de miles de leguas de largo,
que cubriera la inmensa Tierra,
de modo que todos quedaran
cómodamente abrigados.
http://fronterad.com/?q=mi-gruesa-tunica-nueva-bai-juyi-772-846
A Li Chien
En los primeros tiempos
para encauzar el curso de mi vida,
directamente acudí
a Chuang Tzu, capítulo primero.
Pero en los últimos años
el espíritu es mi preocupación;
me convertí a la Dhyana
de la Escuela del Sur.
Exteriormente, acepto
el mundo tal como es;
íntimamente, supero las limitaciones
que imponen los sentidos.
Afuera, no siento aversión
ni por la aldea ni por la Corte;
en mi casa, no necesito
la compañía de nadie.
Desde que aprendí este arte,
adondequiera que vaya
mi mente está en sosiego
y no necesito
de flexiones ni estiramientos
para el bienestar de mis miembros;
ni de ríos ni de lagos
para calmar mis pensamientos.
Si tengo propensión al vino,
algunas veces bebo;
si no tengo nada que hacer
me siento reposadamente,
silencioso y tranquilo
hasta muy tarde
y al siguiente día, duermo profundamente
hasta que el sol está muy alto.
No me causan nostalgia, en otoño,
las noches largas;
no me lamento en primavera
por los días que pasan.
Enseñé a mi cuerpo a olvidar
si es joven o viejo,
y a mi alma, que aprecie igual
la vida que la muerte.
En la conversación que sostuvimos
ayer, cuando te vi,
diste a mis pensamientos
lo que llaman «corazón y médula»,
Porque también mi Camino es
como lo «inexpresable».
Y a no ser por ti, jamás
lo hubiese explicado con palabras.
Incluido en Poetas chinos de la dinastía Tang (618-907) (Visor Libros, Madrid, 2000, selec. y trad. de C. G. Moral).
Balada de la tañedora del laúd
De noche fui a la orilla del río
para despedirme de un amigo.
Sentía el melancólico susurro
de la hojas de los arces
y de las flores de los juncos.
Bajé del caballo.
Ya me esperaba en la barca.
Levantamos las copas y apuramos.
¡Qué lástima no tener
laúdes y flautas
para aprisionar el instante!
El vino no nos dio alegría.
Bajo una luna bañada
en la inmensidad del agua
íbamos a separamos,
tristes, cuando de repente
nos llegaron cautivantes
dulces voces de un laúd
y fuimos retenidos.
Preguntamos en voz baja
quién lo pulsaba.
Cesó la música
sin adelantar respuesta.
Aproximamos la barca.
De nuevo encendí la lámpara.
Volvimos a poner la mesa;
llenamos de vino las copas,
y a la tañedora invitamos.
Sólo tras ruegos repetidos
apareció, con el laúd en los brazos,
y medio cubierto el rostro.
Templa las cuerdas
y, aún sin interpretar,
llena el espacio de emoción.
Una a una vibran de tristeza,
y cada acorde es un lamento
de indescriptibles sufrimientos.
Inclinando la cabeza,
ella sigue tocando,
y así se desahoga
de infinitas penas.
Ora puntea las cuerdas,
ora las rasga;
tañidos fuertes,
después ligeros.
Primero nos endulza
«Vestido de Arco Iris»,
y luego «Verde Cintura».
De las cuerdas gruesas
se desata una furiosa tormenta,
y de las delgadas,
el alegre murmullo de muchachas.
Notas sonoras se mezclan
con susurrantes notas.
Perlas grandes y pequeñas
caen en un plato de jade,
y en medio de frescas flores
trinar y trinar alegres.
Por debajo del límpido hielo,
vienen sollozos de un arroyo.
Congélanse y cesan luego.
¡Qué tristeza más profunda
mora en el fondo del alma!
Por instantes el silencio
expresa más que la música.
De pronto, quebrado jarrón de plata
y agua esparcida, cristalina.
Oigo el galope de corceles
y furiosos ruidos de sables y jinetes;
la ejecución termina.
Por entre las cuerdas
que suenan como al rasgarse
una tela de seda,
el plectro se retira.
De silencio están cubiertas
las dos barcas.
Sólo la luna plateada
yace en el centro del río.
Indecisa, la tañedora
guarda el plectro.
Se estira la ropa,
grave la expresión,
se levanta y dice:
«Nací en la capital;
vivía mi familia
cerca del Mausoleo Siamo.
A la edad de trece
aprendí a tañer el laúd,
y mi nombre estaba en la lista
de las tañedoras más destacadas.
Cada vez que interpretaba,
los maestros me prodigaban elogios,
y con mi bello rostro
me convertí en la envidia
de las artistas celebradas.
Los jóvenes ricos se disputaban
por galantearme y obsequiarme.
Para escuchar una sola pieza
me regalaban con seda abundante;
quebraban, para llevar el compás,
mis horquillas floreadas de plata,
y el vino que derramaban
regaba mi falda púrpura.
Entre acordes y risas
un año siguió al otro.
Pasó el viento de primavera.
Se ocultó la luna de otoño.
El ejército se llevó a mi hermano,
y la muerte, a mi tía.
Se marchitó la flor de mi vida.
Cada vez menos carruajes
se estacionaban frente a mi puerta.
Casé con un comerciante,
quien me trajo a esta aldea.
La separación le importa nada:
a él sólo le atraen las ganancias.
Salió a comprar el mes pasado,
dejándome sola en la barca,
acompañada de la luna
y el gélido río.
Muchas veces, en las noches avanzadas,
sueño con mis felices tiempos pasados,
y corren las lágrimas
como por arroyuelos rosados.»
Escuchando la ejecución,
me penetraba su lamento,
y la desconsolada narración
me carga un pesado dolor.
Estamos en orfandad de la suerte,
y para comprendernos
nos basta un solo encuentro.
«Abandoné la capital el año pasado,
y vine desterrado, enfermo.
En este lugar apartado
no oí ni una canción hermosa
desde tan largo tiempo.
Vivo a la orilla del río,
en húmedo y bajo paraje;
mi casa está rodeada
de cañas amargas
y amarillos juncos.
A mis oídos sólo llegan
desgarradores lamentos de cucos
y aullidos melancólicos de monos.
En las florecientes mañanas de primavera
y en las otoñales noches de luna,
ante una jarra de vino, bebo solo.
Aunque se oyen coplas y flautas,
son feas y me desagradan.
Esta noche me ha sido deleitante
al escuchar su interpretación.
Me purificó el corazón
y me parecieron melodías
de las divinidades.
Le ruego que nos toque algo más.
Improvisaré un poema titulado
La Tañedora del Laúd
y a usted va dedicado.»
La bella dama, conmovida,
permanece de pie largo rato.
Luego se sienta
y, con cadencias aceleradas,
pulsa las cuerdas.
Vibran tan desconsoladas,
que arrancan a todos lágrimas.
El que compone este poema,
bañada su túnica,
es quien llora con más tristeza.
Bai Juyi, incluido en Poesía clásica china (Ediciones Cátedra, Madrid, 2002, ed. y trad. de Guojian Chen).
Canto solitario en la montaña
Todos tienen su debilidad,
y la mía es escribir poemas.
Me sacudí de mil lazos mundanos.
Mas de esta flaqueza
aún no me he librado.
Cada vez que me deleito
con un paisaje pintoresco,
cada vez que me reúno
con un pariente o un amigo,
alzo la voz e improviso
una estrofa poética,
como si un dios acudiera
a avivar mi inteligencia.
Desde que me establecí en la orilla,
paso horas y horas en la montaña.
Cuando termino un nuevo poema,
asciendo solo a la senda
hacia el Peñasco de Oriente.
Recostado en el Barranco de Rocas Blancas
y agarrado a una verde rama de casia,
comienzo mi canto alocado,
que asusta a los bosques y valles.
Los monos y las aves
me miran asombrados.
Temiendo convertirme
en el hazmerreír de la gente,
escojo un paraje solitario.
Bai Juyi, incluido en Poesía clásica china (Ediciones Cátedra, Madrid, 2002, ed. y trad. de Guojian Chen).
Contemplando la sierra Song y el río Luo
Tengo ante mis ojos Song y Luo.
Poniendo la mirada en el pasado,
lamento las penurias del mundo.
Las flores y las glorias humanas,
aguas de este río impetuoso.
Las amarguras y los sufrimientos,
inmensas montañas de la Sierra.
Sólo habiéndose saboreado la tristeza,
se conoce la alegría.
Sólo los que han vivido años turbulentos
saben apreciar la paz.
¿Querrá volver a la jaula
el ave que vuela en el infinito?
Bai Juyi, incluido en Poesía clásica china (Ediciones Cátedra, Madrid, 2002, ed. y trad. de Guojian Chen).
Corazón en otoño
Pocos visitantes atraviesan esta puerta.
Frente a las gradas crecen
numerosos pinos y bambúes,
la pared oriental resguarda
del aire del otoño.
Por el patio occidental
sopla la brisa fresca.
Aunque tengo un arpa
no tengo ganas de tañerla.
Tengo libros, pero
me falta tiempo para leer.
Todo el santo día, en esta región
de una pulgada cuadrada,
sólo existe la tranquilidad
y la ausencia de pasión.
¿Para qué habría de agrandar
mi casa?
No tiene sentido hablar mucho.
Una habitación mediana
es suficiente para el cuerpo;
dos tazones de arroz
bastan para el estómago.
Además de esto, sin ninguna habilidad
para el manejo de los negocios,
haraganeo y recibo
el salario que me da el Emperador.
Jamás he plantado una sola morera,
ni abrí un solo surco para el arroz.
No obstante, me alimento bien
todos los días
y ando bien ataviado
durante el año.
Con semejante conciencia
y conociendo mi retraimiento,
¿Por qué habría de estar descontento?
Bai Juyi, incluido en Poetas chinos de la dinastía Tang (618-907) (Visor Libros, Madrid, 2000, selec. y trad. de C. G. Moral).
Mi amor
Sacando mis prendas húmedas
para secarlas al sol,
salta a mi vista un par de zapatos,
obsequio de la bellísima hija de la vecina.
Aún resuena en mis oídos
lo que dijo al regalármelos:
«Es un testimonio de mi amor.
Espero que no nos separemos
como estos zapatos
que van siempre juntos.»
Desde que fui desterrado,
soy una hoja que flota en el río.
He recorrido leguas y leguas,
mas siempre me los llevo conmigo.
Ahora los miro y remiro,
sumergido en la tristeza:
Los zapatos siguen pareados,
pero yo estoy solo, lejos de ella.
Además, con las interminables lluvias,
ya aparece moho en la pala de seda.
Bai Juyi, incluido en Poesía clásica china (Ediciones Cátedra, Madrid, 2002, ed. y trad. de Guojian Chen).
Song Of Unending Sorrow.
China's Emperor, craving beauty that might shake an empire,
Was on the throne for many years, searching, never finding,
Till a little child of the Yang clan, hardly even grown,
Bred in an inner chamber, with no one knowing her,
But with graces granted by heaven and not to be concealed,
At last one day was chosen for the imperial household.
If she but turned her head and smiled, there were cast a hundred spells,
And the powder and paint of the Six Palaces faded into nothing.
...It was early spring. They bathed her in the FlowerPure Pool,
Which warmed and smoothed the creamy-tinted crystal of her skin,
And, because of her languor, a maid was lifting her
When first the Emperor noticed her and chose her for his bride.
The cloud of her hair, petal of her cheek, gold ripples of her crown when she moved,
Were sheltered on spring evenings by warm hibiscus curtains;
But nights of spring were short and the sun arose too soon,
And the Emperor, from that time forth, forsook his early hearings
And lavished all his time on her with feasts and revelry,
His mistress of the spring, his despot of the night.
There were other ladies in his court, three thousand of rare beauty,
But his favours to three thousand were concentered in one body.
By the time she was dressed in her Golden Chamber, it would be almost evening;
And when tables were cleared in the Tower of Jade, she would loiter, slow with wine.
Her sisters and her brothers all were given titles;
And, because she so illumined and glorified her clan,
She brought to every father, every mother through the empire,
Happiness when a girl was born rather than a boy.
...High rose Li Palace, entering blue clouds,
And far and wide the breezes carried magical notes
Of soft song and slow dance, of string and bamboo music.
The Emperor's eyes could never gaze on her enough-
Till war-drums, booming from Yuyang, shocked the whole earth
And broke the tunes of The Rainbow Skirt and the Feathered Coat.
The Forbidden City, the nine-tiered palace, loomed in the dust
From thousands of horses and chariots headed southwest.
The imperial flag opened the way, now moving and now pausing- -
But thirty miles from the capital, beyond the western gate,
The men of the army stopped, not one of them would stir
Till under their horses' hoofs they might trample those moth- eyebrows....
Flowery hairpins fell to the ground, no one picked them up,
And a green and white jade hair-tassel and a yellowgold hair- bird.
The Emperor could not save her, he could only cover his face.
And later when he turned to look, the place of blood and tears
Was hidden in a yellow dust blown by a cold wind.
... At the cleft of the Dagger-Tower Trail they crisscrossed through a cloud-line
Under Omei Mountain. The last few came.
Flags and banners lost their colour in the fading sunlight....
But as waters of Shu are always green and its mountains always blue,
So changeless was His Majesty's love and deeper than the days.
He stared at the desolate moon from his temporary palace.
He heard bell-notes in the evening rain, cutting at his breast.
And when heaven and earth resumed their round and the dragon car faced home,
The Emperor clung to the spot and would not turn away
From the soil along the Mawei slope, under which was buried
That memory, that anguish. Where was her jade-white face?
Ruler and lords, when eyes would meet, wept upon their coats
As they rode, with loose rein, slowly eastward, back to the capital.
...The pools, the gardens, the palace, all were just as before,
The Lake Taiye hibiscus, the Weiyang Palace willows;
But a petal was like her face and a willow-leaf her eyebrow --
And what could he do but cry whenever he looked at them?
...Peach-trees and plum-trees blossomed, in the winds of spring;
Lakka-foliage fell to the ground, after autumn rains;
The Western and Southern Palaces were littered with late grasses,
And the steps were mounded with red leaves that no one swept away.
Her Pear-Garden Players became white-haired
And the eunuchs thin-eyebrowed in her Court of PepperTrees;
Over the throne flew fire-flies, while he brooded in the twilight.
He would lengthen the lamp-wick to its end and still could never sleep.
Bell and drum would slowly toll the dragging nighthours
And the River of Stars grow sharp in the sky, just before dawn,
And the porcelain mandarin-ducks on the roof grow thick with morning frost
And his covers of kingfisher-blue feel lonelier and colder
With the distance between life and death year after year;
And yet no beloved spirit ever visited his dreams.
...At Lingqiong lived a Taoist priest who was a guest of heaven,
Able to summon spirits by his concentrated mind.
And people were so moved by the Emperor's constant brooding
That they besought the Taoist priest to see if he could find her.
He opened his way in space and clove the ether like lightning,
Up to heaven, under the earth, looking everywhere.
Above, he searched the Green Void, below, the Yellow Spring;
But he failed, in either place, to find the one he looked for.
And then he heard accounts of an enchanted isle at sea,
A part of the intangible and incorporeal world,
With pavilions and fine towers in the five-coloured air,
And of exquisite immortals moving to and fro,
And of one among them-whom they called The Ever True-
With a face of snow and flowers resembling hers he sought.
So he went to the West Hall's gate of gold and knocked at the jasper door
And asked a girl, called Morsel-of-Jade, to tell The Doubly- Perfect.
And the lady, at news of an envoy from the Emperor of China,
Was startled out of dreams in her nine-flowered, canopy.
She pushed aside her pillow, dressed, shook away sleep,
And opened the pearly shade and then the silver screen.
Her cloudy hair-dress hung on one side because of her great haste,
And her flower-cap was loose when she came along the terrace,
While a light wind filled her cloak and fluttered with her motion
As though she danced The Rainbow Skirt and the Feathered Coat.
And the tear-drops drifting down her sad white face
Were like a rain in spring on the blossom of the pear.
But love glowed deep within her eyes when she bade him thank her liege,
Whose form and voice had been strange to her ever since their parting --
Since happiness had ended at the Court of the Bright Sun,
And moons and dawns had become long in Fairy-Mountain Palace.
But when she turned her face and looked down toward the earth
And tried to see the capital, there were only fog and dust.
So she took out, with emotion, the pledges he had given
And, through his envoy, sent him back a shell box and gold hairpin,
But kept one branch of the hairpin and one side of the box,
Breaking the gold of the hairpin, breaking the shell of the box;
"Our souls belong together," she said, " like this gold and this shell --
Somewhere, sometime, on earth or in heaven, we shall surely
And she sent him, by his messenger, a sentence reminding him
Of vows which had been known only to their two hearts:
"On the seventh day of the Seventh-month, in the Palace of Long Life,
We told each other secretly in the quiet midnight world
That we wished to fly in heaven, two birds with the wings of one,
And to grow together on the earth, two branches of one tree."
Earth endures, heaven endures; some time both shall end,
While this unending sorrow goes on and on for ever.
Song Of The Guitar.
In the tenth year of Yuanhe I was banished and demoted to be assistant official in Jiujiang. In the summer of the next year I was seeing a friend leave Penpu and heard in the midnight from a neighbouring boat a guitar played in the manner of the capital. Upon inquiry, I found that the player had formerly been a dancing-girl there and in her maturity had been married to a merchant. I invited her to my boat to have her play for us. She told me her story, heyday and then unhappiness. Since my departure from the capital I had not felt sad; but that night, after I left her, I began to realize my banishment. And I wrote this long poem -- six hundred and twelve characters.
I was bidding a guest farewell, at night on the Xunyang River,
Where maple-leaves and full-grown rushes rustled in the autumn.
I, the host, had dismounted, my guest had boarded his boat,
And we raised our cups and wished to drink-but, alas, there was no music.
For all we had drunk we felt no joy and were parting from each other,
When the river widened mysteriously toward the full moon --
We had heard a sudden sound, a guitar across the water.
Host forgot to turn back home, and guest to go his way.
We followed where the melody led and asked the player's name.
The sound broke off...then reluctantly she answered.
We moved our boat near hers, invited her to join us,
Summoned more wine and lanterns to recommence our banquet.
Yet we called and urged a thousand times before she started toward us,
Still hiding half her face from us behind her guitar.
...She turned the tuning-pegs and tested several strings;
We could feel what she was feeling, even before she played:
Each string a meditation, each note a deep thought,
As if she were telling us the ache of her whole life.
She knit her brows, flexed her fingers, then began her music,
Little by little letting her heart share everything with ours.
She brushed the strings, twisted them slow, swept them, plucked them --
First the air of The Rainbow Skirt, then The Six Little Ones.
The large strings hummed like rain,
The small strings whispered like a secret,
Hummed, whispered-and then were intermingled
Like a pouring of large and small pearls into a plate of jade.
We heard an oriole, liquid, hidden among flowers.
We heard a brook bitterly sob along a bank of sand...
By the checking of its cold touch, the very string seemed broken
As though it could not pass; and the notes, dying away
Into a depth of sorrow and concealment of lament,
Told even more in silence than they had told in sound....
A silver vase abruptly broke with a gush of water,
And out leapt armored horses and weapons that clashed and smote --
And, before she laid her pick down, she ended with one stroke,
And all four strings made one sound, as of rending silk
There was quiet in the east boat and quiet in the west,
And we saw the white autumnal moon enter the river's heart.
...When she had slowly placed the pick back among the strings,
She rose and smoothed her clothing and, formal, courteous,
Told us how she had spent her girlhood at the capital,
Living in her parents' house under the Mount of Toads,
And had mastered the guitar at the age of thirteen,
With her name recorded first in the class-roll of musicians,
Her art the admiration even of experts,
Her beauty the envy of all the leading dancers,
How noble youths of Wuling had lavishly competed
And numberless red rolls of silk been given for one song,
And silver combs with shell inlay been snapped by her rhythms,
And skirts the colour of blood been spoiled with stains of wine....
Season after season, joy had followed joy,
Autumn moons and spring winds had passed without her heeding,
Till first her brother left for the war, and then her aunt died,
And evenings went and evenings came, and her beauty faded --
With ever fewer chariots and horses at her door;
So that finally she gave herself as wife to a merchant
Who, prizing money first, careless how he left her,
Had gone, a month before, to Fuliang to buy tea.
And she had been tending an empty boat at the river's mouth,
No company but the bright moon and the cold water.
And sometimes in the deep of night she would dream of her triumphs
And be wakened from her dreams by the scalding of her tears.
Her very first guitar-note had started me sighing;
Now, having heard her story, I was sadder still.
"We are both unhappy -- to the sky's end.
We meet. We understand. What does acquaintance matter?
I came, a year ago, away from the capital
And am now a sick exile here in Jiujiang --
And so remote is Jiujiang that I have heard no music,
Neither string nor bamboo, for a whole year.
My quarters, near the River Town, are low and damp,
With bitter reeds and yellowed rushes all about the house.
And what is to be heard here, morning and evening? --
The bleeding cry of cuckoos, the whimpering of apes.
On flowery spring mornings and moonlit autumn nights
I have often taken wine up and drunk it all alone,
Of course there are the mountain songs and the village pipes,
But they are crude and-strident, and grate on my ears.
And tonight, when I heard you playing your guitar,
I felt as if my hearing were bright with fairy-music.
Do not leave us. Come, sit down. Play for us again.
And I will write a long song concerning a guitar."
...Moved by what I said, she stood there for a moment,
Then sat again to her strings-and they sounded even sadder,
Although the tunes were different from those she had played before....
The feasters, all listening, covered their faces.
But who of them all was crying the most?
This Jiujiang official. My blue sleeve was wet.
Drunk Again
Last year, when I lay sick,
I vowed
I'd never touch a drop again
As long as I should live.
But who could know
Last year
What this year's spring would bring ?
And here I am,
Coming home from old Liu's house
As drunk as I can be!
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