(2 109 rating) 8.5
Dynasty: Tang Dynasty
Author: Bai Juyi
Original text:
In the tenth year of Yuanhe, Yu moved to Sima, Jiujiang County. Next autumn, seeing off guests in Songpukou and listening to those who play the pipa in the middle of the night will have the clank of iron in Kyoto. Asked male, Ben Chang 'an advocates women, learns the pipa from the old and faded Mu and Cao, and devotes himself to being a good girl. Then he ordered wine and asked Aauto Quicker to play some songs. When I was young, I told myself my happiness. Now I am wandering, haggard and wandering between rivers and lakes. After two years as an official, I feel at ease and feel that I have moved towards the future. Because of long sentences and songs, every 616 words are called pipa xing.
In the evening, I bid farewell to a guest on Xunyang River. Maple leaves and mature rushes rustle in autumn.
I, the host, have dismounted, my guest has boarded his boat, and we raise our cups, hoping to drink-but, alas, there is no music.
Although we drank a lot of wine, we were not happy. When we were leaving each other, the river mysteriously widened in the direction of the full moon.
We heard a sudden sound, a guitar crossed the water, the host forgot to go home and the guests left.
We followed the direction of the melody and asked the player's name, and the voice was interrupted ... and then she reluctantly answered.
We moved the boat closer to hers, invited her to join us, and summoned more wine and lanterns to start our party again.
However, before she came to us, we called a thousand times and urged her for a thousand times, but she still hid half of her face behind her guitar from us.
... she turned the tuning pin and tested several strings, and even before she played, we could feel her feelings.
Every string is a kind of meditation, and every note is a kind of deep thinking, as if she were telling us the pain of her life.
She frowned, bent her fingers, and then started her music, letting her heart share everything with us bit by bit.
She brushed the strings, twisted them slowly, swept them and plucked them, after the "dress-up" began.
Big strings hum like rain, and small strings whisper like secrets.
Humming, whispering-and then mixing together, like pouring large and small pearls into a plate of jade.
Between Guan Ying's words, the bottom of the flower is slippery, so you can't swallow the spring scenery and flow under the ice.
The ice spring is cold and astringent, and the strings condense, and the condensation will never stop.
The depth of sadness and the hiding of sadness are more told in silence than in voice.
A silver vase suddenly burst, pouring out a stream of water, jumping out of the conflict and blow between armored horses and weapons.
Before she put down the pick, her stroke was over, and all four strings made a sound, just like tearing silk.
The east ship was silent, and the west ship was silent. We saw the white autumn moon entering the river.