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Six Ugly Monsters: On the Willow Fluff
English Poetic Translation
As the eastern wind grows ancient and austere,
Gone is the dashing spirit of yesteryear.
Emotions drift ungathered, a lodging soul
Adrift across rivers where the wild tides roll.
What turbulent age is this we face?
I recall the highway post, the brief resting place,
Then stepping through the gate a thousand miles away.
A foolish hope that wheeling winds might make it stay:
Beneath silk fans you met, on hairpins gently clung,
Where ten thousand trailing threads of willow hung.
They screen the courier stations by the road,
Yet cannot part the river's rushing flood.
At Guazhou port they moored in days gone by,
Waiting for travelers as the years roll high.
Long autumn shadows beneath the sinking sun,
While startled city crows their night flight run.
Within silk curtains, sweet is spring's repose;
Together back above the lake the willow-down blows,
Till every patch of emerald grass is covered deep.
Soft rain falls now, like grease on hearts half-asleep.
Before Fengle Tower, by the old abandoned gate,
They wait for transformation, yielding to their fate.
Who mourns the drifting wanderers, scattered and lone?
Dot after dot, like matted snow and pine-sap sown,
They gather into tears for you alone.
Gone is the dashing spirit of yesteryear.
Emotions drift ungathered, a lodging soul
Adrift across rivers where the wild tides roll.
What turbulent age is this we face?
I recall the highway post, the brief resting place,
Then stepping through the gate a thousand miles away.
A foolish hope that wheeling winds might make it stay:
Beneath silk fans you met, on hairpins gently clung,
Where ten thousand trailing threads of willow hung.
They screen the courier stations by the road,
Yet cannot part the river's rushing flood.
At Guazhou port they moored in days gone by,
Waiting for travelers as the years roll high.
Long autumn shadows beneath the sinking sun,
While startled city crows their night flight run.
Within silk curtains, sweet is spring's repose;
Together back above the lake the willow-down blows,
Till every patch of emerald grass is covered deep.
Soft rain falls now, like grease on hearts half-asleep.
Before Fengle Tower, by the old abandoned gate,
They wait for transformation, yielding to their fate.
Who mourns the drifting wanderers, scattered and lone?
Dot after dot, like matted snow and pine-sap sown,
They gather into tears for you alone.
Classical Chinese & Pinyin
似東風老大，那復有、當時風氣。
有情不收，江山身是寄。
浩蕩何世。
但憶臨官道，暫來不住，便出門千里。
癡心指望迴風墜。
扇底相逢，釵頭微綴。
他家萬條千縷，解遮亭障驛，不隔江水。
瓜洲曾艤，等行人歲歲。
日下長秋，城烏夜起。
帳廬好在春睡。
共飛歸湖上，草青無地。
雨、春心如膩。
欲待化、豐樂樓前，青門都廢。
何人念、流落無幾。
點點摶作，雪綿松潤，爲君淚。
有情不收，江山身是寄。
浩蕩何世。
但憶臨官道，暫來不住，便出門千里。
癡心指望迴風墜。
扇底相逢，釵頭微綴。
他家萬條千縷，解遮亭障驛，不隔江水。
瓜洲曾艤，等行人歲歲。
日下長秋，城烏夜起。
帳廬好在春睡。
共飛歸湖上，草青無地。
雨、春心如膩。
欲待化、豐樂樓前，青門都廢。
何人念、流落無幾。
點點摶作，雪綿松潤，爲君淚。
Philological Direct Translation
Like eastern wind grown old, how could it again have the air of that time?
Possessing feeling yet uncollected, body and rivers-and-mountains are a lodging.
Vast and billowing, what era is this?
Only remembering the official inspection road, staying briefly it does not halt, then stepping out the gate a thousand miles.
Foolish heart pointing and hoping the turning wind will make it fall.
Meeting beneath the fan, slightly attached to the hairpin.
Its family of ten thousand strands and a thousand threads, knows how to block pavilions and post-stations, yet cannot separate the river water.
Guazhou has been moored at, waiting for travelers year after year.
Beneath the sun long autumn, city crows rise at night.
Curtained tent rests well in spring slumber.
Together flying back above the lake, grass is green with no place left.
Rain, spring heart like grease.
Desiring to wait for transformation, before Fengle Tower, Qingmen all abandoned.
Who remembers wandering and falling, with few left?
Dot by dot rolling together, snow cotton and pine moisture, turning into tears for you.
Possessing feeling yet uncollected, body and rivers-and-mountains are a lodging.
Vast and billowing, what era is this?
Only remembering the official inspection road, staying briefly it does not halt, then stepping out the gate a thousand miles.
Foolish heart pointing and hoping the turning wind will make it fall.
Meeting beneath the fan, slightly attached to the hairpin.
Its family of ten thousand strands and a thousand threads, knows how to block pavilions and post-stations, yet cannot separate the river water.
Guazhou has been moored at, waiting for travelers year after year.
Beneath the sun long autumn, city crows rise at night.
Curtained tent rests well in spring slumber.
Together flying back above the lake, grass is green with no place left.
Rain, spring heart like grease.
Desiring to wait for transformation, before Fengle Tower, Qingmen all abandoned.
Who remembers wandering and falling, with few left?
Dot by dot rolling together, snow cotton and pine moisture, turning into tears for you.