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www.chinapage.com/poet-e/wangwe2e.html
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In English Translation
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The autumn hills hoard scarlet from the setting sun. Flying birds chase their mates, Now and then patches of blue sky break clear -- Tonight the evening mists find nowhere to gather.
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Day after day we can't help growing older. Year after year spring can't help seeming younger. Come let's enjoy our winecup today, Not pity the flowers fallen!
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Hidden on this mountain, many Buddhist monks Chant sutras, meditate together; Men on distant city walls gazing towards the peaks See only white, enshrouding clouds.
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How long can one man's lifetime last? In the end we return to formlessness. I think of you waiting to die. A thousand things cause me distress - Your kind old mother's still alive. Your only daughter's only ten. In the vast chilly wilderness I hear the sounds of weeping men. Clouds float into a great expanse. Birds fly but do not sing in flight. How lonely are the travellers. Even the sun shines cold and white. Alas, when you still lived, and asked To study non-rebirth with me, My exhortations were delayed- And so the end came, fruitlessly. All your old friends have brought you gifts But for your life these too are late. I've failed you in more ways than one. Weeping, I walk back to my gate.
tr.by Vikram Seth |
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In middle life I became immersed in the philosophy of Tao; Later I went to live at the foot of South Mountain. When I am happy I walk alone in the hills. I know within my heart what is good and which is beautiful. When I arrive at the source of the stream I sit down to rest and to watch the mists rising. Sometimes I need a time-worn woodcutter -- Talking and laughing together, we forget it is time to go home!
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You have just arrived from my hometown, And should know what is happening there; When you came, had the winter plum tree Before my latticed window blossomed yet? |
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Wei City morning rain dampens the light dust. By this inn, green, newly green willows. I urge you to drink another cup of wine; west of Yang Pass are no old friends.
tr. Mike O'Connor
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Leaning alone in the close bamboos, I am playing my lute and humming a song Too softly for anyone to hear -- Except my comrade, the bright moon. |
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