| 題名： | 錦瑟 |
| 作者： | 李商隱 |
| 錦瑟無端五十絃，一絃一柱思華年。莊生曉夢迷蝴蝶，望帝春心託杜鵑。滄海月明珠有淚，藍田日暖玉生煙。此情可待成追憶，只是當時已惘然。 | |
| 英譯： |
This thing has fifty strings
and nobody knows why
each string and fret brings back
the lost and blooming past
the philosopher, dreaming at dawn,
and his counterpart, the butterfly
or the shamed, love-mad emperor
melting into the call of the whippoorwills
full moon above the ocean
pearls swelling in a sea of tears
the sun grows warm — in indigo pastures
fine jade begins to smoke
love should live on and on
filling our years and memories
$but somehow it dazes us, fading,
and we're not even sure it was real$
Mere chance that the patterned lute has fifty strings. String and fret, one by one, recall the blossoming years. Chuang-tzū dreams at sunrise that a butterfly lost its way, Wang-ti bequeathed his spring passion to the nightjar. The moon is full on the vast sea, a tear on the pearl. On Blue Mountain the sun warms, a smoke issues from the jade. Did it wait, this mood, to mature with hindsight? In a trance from the beginning, then as now. The richly painted zither, for no reason, has fifty strings; Each string, each bridge, recalls a burgeoning year. Master Chuang, dreaming at dawn, was confused with a butterfly; Emperor Wang consigned his amorous heart in spring to the cuckoo. By the vast sea, the moon brightens pearls tears; At Indigo Field, the sun warms jade that engenders smoke. This feeling might have become a memory to be cherished, But for that, even then, it already seemed an illusion. The ornamented zither, for no reason, has fifty strings. Each string, each bridge, recalls a youthful year. Master Chuang was confused by his morning dream of the butterfly; Emperor Wang's amorous heart in spring is entrusted to the cuckoo. In the vast sea, under a bright moon, pearls have tears; On Indigo Mountain, in the warm sun, jade engenders smoke. This feeling might have become a thing to be remembered, Only, at the time you were already bewildered and lost. The richly painted zither somehow has fifty strings, Each of which recalls a vanished year. Dawn dreaming Zhuang Zi got mixed up with a butterfly, King Wang lent tender feelings to the cuckoo's call. In bright moonlit seas of blue, tears change to pearls, The air above Lantian shimmers from the jade hidden within its hills. These thoughts are not the stuff of recollection, But what eludes our grasp as life itself unfolds. THE brocade-embroidered zither had fifty strings, no one knows why; Each string and each support made one think of the years of one's prime. Chuang Tzŭ dreamt at morning he was a butterfly. After death, the soul of the Emperor Wang took up its brief springtime abode in the body of a nightjar, While in the wide ocean under the bright moon the mermaids drop their tears which become pearls. Why at Lan-t‘ien in the warm sunshine does jade engender mists? Can we hope for these kinds of portents to come again? Or are they only things that had form once but have vanished away? I wonder why the inlaid psaltery has fifty strings? Every string and peg evokes the beautiful years. Dawn-dreaming Chuang-tzu, the hovering butterfly: In spring the Emperor's heart haunting the cuckoos, Moonlight in the blue sea, pearls shedding tears, In the warm sun the jade in the blue fields engendering smoke— So should our loves endure, being filled with memory; But already these days are fading into the years. I wonder why my inlaid harp has fifty strings, Each with its flower-like fret an interval of youth. ... The sage Chuang-tzǔ is day-dreaming, bewitched by but-terflies, The spring-heart of Emperor Wang is crying in a cuckoo, Mermen weep their pearly tears down a moon-green sea, Blue fields are breathing their jade to the sun ... And a moment that ought to have lasted for ever Has come and gone before I knew. The inlaid psaltery fifty chords has; and I know no reason why. And every chord and every nut vibrates like youth's fond memory. Sedately born, in morning's dream like butterflies we madly fly. Then passion gazing on our lord yearns with the cuckoo's wailing cry. When on the sea the moon is bright, hard pearls are born like tears of woe. On Fertile Fields where shone the Sun, the gem is lost in mists below. Such thoughts as these had I recalled, my tears had not such cause to flow. But ah! transported from myself, I then forgot what now I know! The inlaid psaltery fifty chords has; and I know no reason why. And every chord and every nut vibrates like youth's fond memory. Sedately born, in morning's dream like butterflies we madly fly. Then passion gazing on our lord yearns with the cuckoo's wailing cry. When on the sea the moon is bright, hard pearls are born like tears of woe. On Fertile Fields where shone the Sun, the gem is lost in mists below. Such thoughts as these had I recalled, my tears had not such cause to flow. But ah! transported from myself, I then forgot what now I know! THE brocade-embroidered lute had fifty strings, no one knows why; Each string and each support made one think of the years of one’s prime. Chuang Tzŭ dreamt at morning he was a butterfly. After death, the soul of the Emperor Wang took up its brief springtime abode in the body of a nightjar, While in the wide ocean under the bright moon the mermaids drop their tears which become pearls. Why at Lan T‘ien in the warm sunshine does jade engender mists? Can we hope for these kinds of portents to come again? Or are they only things that had form once but have vanished away? Why should the zither sad have fifty strings? Each string, each strain evokes but vanished springs: Dim morning dream to be a butterfly; Amorous heart poured out in cuckoo's cry. In moonlit pearls see tears in mermaid's eyes; From sunburnt jade in Blue Field let smoke rise! Such feeling cannot be recalled again, It seemed long-lost e'en when it was felt then. There’s no reason for the fifty strings on a decorated harp – With one string, one strut, I think of my youthful years. In his dream at dawn Master Zhuang was bemused by a butterfly; The emperor Wang’s spring thoughts were entrusted to a cuckoo. The moon shines bright above the ocean whose pearls have tears; The sun is warm over Azure Fields where smoke rises from jade. Love like that could wait and give a shape to memories; It’s just that even at the time it was hazy and obscure. For no reason, the ornate zither has fifty strings; Each string with its fret evokes recollection of a youthful spring. Zhuangzi was baffled by his dawn dream of being a butterfly; The cuckoo was entrusted with the tender soul of a king. In the green sea under a bright moon, tears would turn into pearls; In Lantian under a warm sun, rising mists the jade would bring. Such feeling may be left to memories ─ Only at the time it was a puzzling thing. |
| 日譯： | 暫無日譯內容 |