Widow's Reply to the Matchmaker
I pity myself, a lonely soul.
My family is poor as can be, my looks are plain and unadorned.
In middle age I chose a mate, and was blessed with a worthy husband.
At Blue Bridge we met as if by fate, a red leaf sealed our happy union.
I served him humbly in daily chores, and reverently prepared the rites.
From the six rites of betrothal onward, I dreamed of a hundred years together.
Who could have foreseen my hopes dashed, suddenly cut short on life's journey?
I wailed like a deer at the crumbling wall, my tears stained the bamboo with spots.
The empty room is lit by the moon, the lonely grave shrouded in cold mist.
Birds clamor at the tomb's gate, my spirit descends, fluttering and faint.
Spiders fill the windows and doors, my heart is knotted, eyes brim with tears.
Once our chamber was a splendid house, now buried jade lies in a wild field.
I regret not sharing the same grave at once; how could I bear to mend a broken string?
Recalling our early days of union, I grasp the wisdom of the old wife's Zen.
Like fish swimming in water, like ivy clinging close.
But alas, life and death are vast, like a boat adrift on the water.
Bound as husband and wife, yet fickle as the marketplace.
I would only invite the shame of willow catkins, never escape the folly of poplar fluff.
I am somewhat learned with brush and ink, and have read the classics and histories.
A woman does not step into two courtyards; a wife does not shift her heaven again.
Tao Ying sang of the widowed swan, the wife of Wei wrote of the lonely swallow.
Some cut their ears to swear an oath, some severed their hair to preserve their honor.
Some sliced their noses in defiance, some marred their faces in steadfast resolve.
My feet I would gladly cut off, but my arm cannot be led astray.
A lofty chastity stands firm, a phoenix soars alone, unmatched.
Though I am but a humble widow, I intend to uphold integrity.
Matchmaker, you pity my widowhood, but you only deepen my fault.
My fate is as thin as a spring leaf, but my heart is hard as a rock.
Anxious for a foot of cloth, do I not envy the fine wool?
Eager for a peck of grain, do I not think of meat and spice?
My hands calloused from pounding and drawing—how compare to a thousand maids?
Bowing in my humble hut—how compare to ease in silken rooms?
Withered roots rejoice in spring's return, the broken moon delights to be whole.
Who in this world does not love such things? Yet I alone am not so inclined.
Principle and righteousness have their bounds; material desires are never sated.
Three marriages foul and hard to cleanse, five weddings shameful, carved in disgrace.
Fleeting glory flashes like lightning, lasting stench flows like a river.
Your words, matchmaker, are so glib; your intent is suddenly earnest.
Until death, I vow no other—this word shall be my true creed.
Wenji was exceedingly charming, Yi'an too was lovely and fair.
But to lose virtue and serve another—the red brush records no praise.
Chastity and duty decline each day; what worth then are mere writings?
The Queen Mother has her errands, the blue bird's messages frequent.
Do not fall into human desires, and thus defile the heavenly immortals.
Chang'e—did she not marry? She but hugs an old golden toad.
Thus the Moon Palace, for all eternity, hangs a clear mirror of purity.
Better to be poor and toil like a deer, better to be lowly and endure grinding.
Better to freeze like a cold fly, better to starve like a hungry kite.
Never would I trade this sorrow for fleeting joy.
The water at the well's bottom stays unrippled; the stone on the mountain's peak remains unmoved.
I bow twice to decline the matchmaker, return with twin streams of tears.
I'll wrap and hide the broken mirror; in the afterlife, we'll meet at the Yellow Springs.