In deep woods, the cuckoo cries
They say it's ancient Shu's king
Why is Shu's king a bird?
Startled, urgent, as if guilty
First cry in radiant festival
Spring hues too can be replaced
Second cry in early summer woods
Dense leaves can provide shade
Third cry in cool autumn dawn
All flowers lose vitality
Fourth cry in dark winter
Clouds and things bleak, not clearing
Grizzled a strong man's hair
Wets a beauty's sleeve
Grief deep as cold crow chicks
Sorrow veils sick crane's wings
Why entrust a hidden fate?
Shelter a form without whole down
Mournful, bearing utmost wrong
Humble, fearing the crowd's might
I hear the phoenix is chief
All feather tribes submit
Why not share kingfisher plumes?
Make it learn parrot's wit
Enmity lies not in the bowstring
One sorrow can still be borne
How make it know no rest?
Weeping blood through ages
Ancient airs lost balance and harmony
Decadent times due to Zheng and Wei tunes
Three sighs, still excessive grief
Facing thirst, sighing, shedding tears
If moved by different sounds
Music accords with inner heart
Supreme teaching once obscured and wild
Living men thus become frail
Ancient meaning laments closeness
Like reaching sky's blue edge
Bitter herbs long since tasted sweet
Vainly toil with violet and mallow's kindness
Who hears the cuckoo's bitterness?
Thinks to plan with proper sounds