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The Lament of a Qin Woman
In the third month of spring in the year Gui Mao,
Outside Luoyang city, flowers fall like snow.
Roads to the east, west, south and north are deserted,
As green willows quietly shed their fragrant dust.
By the roadside appears suddenly a flowery woman,
Who rests alone in the shade of a green willow tree.
With phoenix-like grace and a tilted head and feet,
Her red lips pursed, her black eyebrows knit.
When asked from where she came,
She hesitates to speak, her voice choked with emotion.
Turning away, she folds her sleeves to bid farewell,
Unable to bear the sorrows and disasters that cannot be told.
For three years the invaders ravaged the land of Qin,
And memories of the past still linger within.
If you could free me from my golden saddle,
I would dance with you, barefoot on jade gravel.
Last year, in the fifth month of the winter of Geng Zi,
I was teaching my parrot in its golden cage to speak,
When I neglected to comb my hair and glance at the mirror,
Leaning idly against the carved balcony without a word.
Suddenly, I saw a red dust rising outside my door,
And the clamor of drums and trumpets echoed on the street.
The residents rushed out, half fearful and half perplexed,
While the officials returned home, doubtful and fretful.
At that moment, the imperial father arrived in haste,
Dismounting from his horse, he looked confused and dazed.
He had just seen the purple canopy covered in dust,
And the white flag of the enemy advancing on the ground.
The weak and young cried out in alarm and fear,
And ran with their mothers to the shelter of nearby homes.
The women of neighbors gathered in terror and dismay,
Fleeing together like a herd of frightened animals.
The earth shook with a deafening and mighty roar,
As if the universe was moving and tremors tore.
The sound of exploding horses and thunderclaps filled the air,
While smoke and flames rose from every street and square.
The setting sun turned the sky cold and white,
And the silent heavens seemed to sigh and sigh.
Dark clouds of miasma loomed overhead,
As shooting stars of evil light flashed a bloody red.
Every household screamed in agony and despair,
As blood flowed like fountains everywhere.
Actresses and singers abandoned their trade,
As infants and young girls were cast off and betrayed.
To the west, a lady with freshly painted brows,
Mounted a warrior's chariot with a spear and bow.
Looking back over her shoulder with a trembling heart,
She shed tears, too ashamed to meet anyone's gaze.
She learned to stitch banners with golden thread,
And to ride horses with carved saddles and bridles instead.
Once on horseback, she dared not look back,
Her tears falling freely, her heart broken and black.
To the east, there was a woman like a fairy,
Who cut the waves with a single stroke vain and merry.
But being very young, she knew nothing of what transpired,
Outside her door and within her world, she had never aspired.
A man suddenly leapt up the golden steps,
His bare shoulders revealing his burning shame.
Clutching his clothes, he refused to leave through the vermilion gate,
Choosing death under the knife of rouge and powder that they aim.
To the south, a girl whose name was lost to memory,
Had been betrothed just yesterday by a good matchmaker's decree.
But on the glass stairway no footsteps could be heard,
And only her faint image could be seen behind the gossamer curtain blurred.
Suddenly, the sound of swords clashing was heard on the courtyard,
And in an instant, heads and limbs were cut off in absurd.
She screamed, covering her face in despair with one hand,
As her siblings one by one fell into the well, as if under a command.
To the north, a young wife hastened to depart,
Fringes of her hair undone, and speech that was apart.
Her face twisted, bragging of her valor and fame,
Inscribed on her skin, her deeds in glory and shame.
Her clothes were awry, her words were strange,
Turning her head from side to side, she looked deranged.
But when I saw her again, she was lying on the ground,
Her body shattered, her soul nowhere to be found.
How could I return to my bower of joy?
Though treasures abound, none could bring me any joy.
My hair is unkempt, my face still red from tears,
As I turn in circles, unable to escape my fears.
My dress is askew, my speech is strange,
And on my face, the marks of pride and pain.
I cannot return to my old home anymore,
For my loved ones are gone, and I am left to mourn.
/9 
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发表于 2023-6-15 20:35:10