Who is playing the ruanxian, with such a gentle, deliberate touch?
Playing the 'Crows Crying at Night,' a sorrow that stirs my heart.
In the Southern Dynasties, there was an imperial prince,
Who served as a regional governor, bearing the title of marquis.
He placed himself in a dubious position,
His livelihood growing ever more constrained.
His beloved concubine, hearing the crows' cry,
Changed his post, securing an official bamboo tally.
Some say a Chang'an official,
Found his life hanging by a thread.
A young wife, hearing the crows' cry,
Brought a pardon that spread like a great flood.
Though I myself am of little worth,
In youth I wore the dark cap of a scholar.
Transferred again to serve as a county aide,
Hoping to fulfill my ancestors' expectations.
Dipping ink to resolve doubtful lawsuits,
Wielding vermillion to comfort wronged souls.
The wicked, seeing this, grew furious,
And with utmost malice sought to carve and dismember.
First obstructed at Liyang Bridge,
Even public opinion was stifled.
Cruelly beaten, even the treasury clerk,
Was falsely named a thief of coins.
The clerk, cornered by torture,
His hands broken, his face growing darker.
Forced to confess in writing, admitting guilt,
His body ultimately branded and scarred.
Such cruel poison as this,
Who would say they had no scheme?
Slanderous letters reached the outer court,
And so I faced the envoy's impeachment.
Dragged into the prison city,
Five years of extreme misery and hardship.
Pleading my case to the high heavens,
A grief so deep none could fathom.
If not for one of upright spirit,
Who would have spoken to clear my name?
Looking back on the time of suffering,
It was more than just clipped wings.
Grief and injustice spread through the lanes,
Tears flowing down to servants and slaves.
My widowed mother, with wife and children,
Gazed blankly at the autumn hues.
Who could have guessed that today,
I'd set out wine and pork slices?
Hearing this mournful music play,
I can only sigh, unable to speak.
The moon is bright, guests have departed,
The courtyard echoes with the cawing of crows.
People seeing the merciful crow,
Fill the paths with scorn and laughter.
Who understands the workings of fortune,
That calamity gone can turn to blessing?
On the high branches of Shanglin Park,
I shall go and be a recluse.