Song of the Burial of Flowers
                                    by Cao Xueqin [Qing Dynasty]
Flowers fade and fall and fly about up in the sky,
　　But who pities the loss of your fragrance when you die?
Like gossamer you float and land on pavilions,
　　With your fallen petals clung soft to fine curtains.
In my boudoir I sigh over the close of spring,
　　But there’s no way to express my sorrowful feeling.
Spade in hand, I go out from under my fine curtain,
　　To and fro on fallen petals, how can I bear treading?
Willow twigs and elm buds send sweet scents as they may,
　　Who cares when peach and plum petals are in decay?
Next year peach and plum trees will be in bloom again,
　　But who will be the master of my boudoir then?
In March lunar swallows have got their nests ready,
　　They on the beam seem to be those without mercy.
Next year in their flight, fresh flowers they may peck, though,
　　All that they and I have will be lost, they never know.
There are three hundred and sixty days in one year,
　　With you the elements of nature are severe.
Time is not long for you to be bright and charming,
　　Your trace and track are hard to find in your drifting.
You are easy to see when open but hard when fallen,
　　Before the stairs I am worried where to find your remains.
Against the spade I lean and in secret weep sudden,
　　Splashed on your bare branches are my tears like bloodstains.
The cuckoo ceases its warbling at twilight,
　　With my spade I return and shut the doors tight.
I go to bed with a lone oil lamp still shining,
　　My quilt is not warm when a cold rain is falling.
I feel at heart it is a matter quite nerve-racking,
　　For I like spring or I feel sad over its leaving.
Spring I love and my sorrow repair at a fast pace,
　　They come silent and go without leaving a trace.
Last night beyond pavilions sad song seemed rising,
　　Was it the souls of flowers or birds that were singing?
It is always hard to ask their souls to stay behind,
　　That birds are silent and flowers feel ashamed, I find.
I wish to have two wings under my arms to fly,
　　After you unto the farthest end of the sky.
At the farthest end of the sky,
　　Where can I find the grave of your fragrance lie?
Better in silk to shroud your petals fair,
　　With a handful of clean earth as your attire.
For pure you have come and pure you repair,
　　Lest you fall into some foul ditch or mire.
I hold a burial when you die today,
　　But there’s no telling when I pass away.
Others laugh at me that have buried thee,
　　Who will be the one that shall bury me?
The end of spring makes flowers fall one by one,
　　It’s also the time when beauty meets its doom.
Once beauty is carried to its very tomb,
　　Both beauty and flowers perish known to none.

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引用第1楼绝对烂仔于2010-02-20 21:06发表的  :
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引用第2楼绝对烂仔于2010-02-20 21:06发表的  :
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