Moonlight flies down from crabapple branches,
Spring wind and watchtower horns sound mournful.
Jade cup drains dry as the water-clock turns,
Golden sword dance ends, flower shadows shift.
The Rui-zhu Immortal smiles, moving the candle,
Awakening the old dragon's weep in the dark pool.
A heart like lofty mountains and flowing water,
Three times playing the Rainbow Skirt, Feathered Robe tune.
First like ancient gully's cold spring murmuring,
Then turning to mournful apes' plaintive cries.
Bending, sliding, twisting, plucking—endless meaning,
Seeming to speak, seeming sorrowful, unbearable to hear.
Not yet returned to the Divine Empyrean Palace,
In heaven, what night is this tonight?
Jade towers desolate, mystic flowers empty,
Then comes the Eighteen Stanzas of the Tartar Reed.
Your lute is exquisite, a treasure you seldom share,
Knowing I understand, you play for me.
Jade hairpins, gem pendants are hard to obtain,
Vast, clear winds blow from the frigid moon.
Human life is but a dream like this,
Thirty-six thousand days, a snap of fingers.
The Penglai shallows shall turn to mulberry fields,
You cease your lute, I lean on the table.
For you I sing these several airs,
The lute lies not in the tune but in the heart.
A half-frown is worth myriad green threads,
A single smile outvalues a thousand gold.
My lute has no frets nor tuning pegs,
Save for Hu Ba, all others are laughable.
Under the fingers, spring dew dries,
Upon the strings, suddenly a warm breeze tightens.
The lute's meaning lofty and drifting far,
One playing makes all worldly cares vanish.
The lonely moon, desolate, shines on the parasol tree,
The intermittent night rain patters on plantain leaves.
My lute is called the handle of Creation,
When played, Chaos itself listens.
I see you were once a Rui-zhu person,
I wish your lute to merge with Creation.
Long ago in Divine Empyrean, I did not see you,
Yet in Rui-zhu Hall I seemed to have heard.
Heaven and earth are already sundered,
Gazing afar at the misty, spring-empty clouds.