| 英譯： |
Groups of mountains and thousands of streams run to Ching-men.
It's still there, the village where Ming-fei was born and bred.
As soon as she left home the crimson terraces linked her to the northern desert.
All that remains is the green tomb facing the yellow dusk.
The painting showed imperfectly her spring-wind face,
With tinkling pendants, in the moonlit night, her soul comes back in vain.
For a thousand years the lute, speaking its barbarian language,
Has clearly expressed her sorrow in songs.
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