发布于2020-07-15 10:51来源：原创 0 评论 2 点赞
Falling flowers fly across the sky,
Red and scent die can who care?
Softy gossamer floats on trees gently,
Falling willow fluff wafts to the broidered curtain softly.
I cherish the ending spring as wait marriage,
But fully sorrow-laden in heart can’t pour out.
With a hoe I walk out of my boudoir,
On fallen petals I couldn’t come and go.
Willow threads and elms leaves are fresh and gay;
Regardless of peach and plum blossom drifting away.
Peach and plum can sprout next year,
But who can stay with me next year?
March builds me swallow nest,
But apathetically on the beam they rest.
Next year though they may peck the buds again,
But no prediction for my empty chamber can their nest remain.
Three hundred and sixty days a year,
Harsh wind and frozen frost threaten my youth;
How long could I be fresh and fair,
Once blown away, you cannot find me anywhere.
Easy to blossom, hard to find,
On the stair I was sad to death for future.
Alone with hoe, tears shed secretly,
Like drops of blood turn bare branches red.
Cuckoo sings no more as twilight falling,
Hoe on shoulder, I push my door in heavy.
In bed dim light beams my empty room,
On window cold rain-drop beats my chilling feeling.
Why am I frown in such a fret?
Is it for love of spring or for regret?
I love it when it comes, regret it when it goes,
But spring comes and goes mute as water flows.
Last night I heard a dirge over the courtyard,
Was it by the soul of flower or bird?
The bird’s and flower’s soul are hard to detain,
The flowers blush and silent birds remain;
Wish you and me can have wings to fly,
To fly to the sky-edge with pedals.
Sky ends, where can I burry my fragrant soul?
Might as well I shroud in silken bag the petals fair,
Better to bury them in the earth forever.
Pure they come and pure they go,
How tolerant can I sink them to oblivion below.
Now they are dead, I come to bury them today.
But who can predict the time when I pass away?
You might laugh at my foolish ceremony,
But who will bury me someday as acrimony?
Spring departs and flowers wither by and by,
Time to farewell when beauty goes to old and die.
Once spring is gone and beauty dead, alas!
Who will care for the fallen bloom and buried lass?