| 英譯： |
In the mountains of the south
they cut the bamboo up
To make the bamboo pipe, which came
originally from Kucha,
Passed on to us in the lands of the Han
its tunes have turned out strange,
As we hear when a Tartar from Liangzhou
plays the pipe for us.
Listeners from hereabouts
heave many a heartfelt sigh;
Travellers from far away
all weep and think of home.
People like to hear the pipe
but they don’t appreciate it –
It comes and goes of its own accord,
out of a drawn-out whirlwind,
Whistling cold in withered groves
of mulberry and old cedar,
Then wildly twittering, a nest
of noisy phoenix chicks.
A dragon and tiger roar as one
and dozens of bubbling springs
And the myriad piping sounds of nature
mingle into autumn.
Suddenly there’s a change and it plays
the drum song of Yuyang,
And yellow clouds hang desolate
under a darkening sun.
The tune moves on, and now it seems
we hear the willows in spring,
And see afresh the wealth of flowers
within the Upland Wood.
It’s New Year’s Eve, and in the great hall
bright candles are laid out;
We have a cup of fine ale to drink –
and for music we have a tune.
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