The Han palace, deep and still, congeals in purple mist;
How many years have passed since I first entered, listless?
High towers, autumn moon, shine on the clear night so cold;
Warm pavilions, spring flowers, lull one to drunken sleep, I'm told.
I recall when first they sent me off, leaving kith and kin;
Then they planned to array banners and halberds, a glorious scene to begin.
How could the royal gate be like the mortal world, in truth?
A foot away, yet severed by a thousand mountains, forsooth.
Flowers and moon, dawn after dawn, pass into dusk in vain;
Long have I cherished my rosy face, but it's not the same again.
The inner court's carriages scatter coins of gold;
How can this body of mine be by the rain and dew consoled?
Suddenly I hear the Flowery Palace selects silken dresses fine;
The Chanyu comes to court the Son of Heaven of Han's line.
They only say I wish to marry the Chanyu, in haste;
What if the sovereign should prize the peach and plum in taste?
In the Daming Palace, they feast Huhan, the Hun lord grand;
Like a lotus emerging from water, in the mirror I stand.
Pacing, I gaze at my shadow, my flowery visage bright;
Graceful and full my features, yet the vast hall chills with light.
That day, the sovereign was both pleased and shocked, I recall;
Wishing to keep me, yet breaking faith, his feelings did appall.
Had they not put to death Mao Yanshou, the painter base,
Then would they believe that moth-eyebrows could not be drawn with grace.
Vast and boundless, the Han frontier merges with desert sand;
The willow shades at Yang Pass—the heartbreak's very land.
The paths and fields of my homeland, I imagine, remain the same;
On horseback, strumming the pipa, to whom can I proclaim?
Fate is thin, life remains, with weight both light and grave;
From now on, Mount Tian grows quiet, from dust and turmoil save.
Are the valiant warriors west of the mountains like you, my lord?
This day's safety and peril are entrusted to a woman, by accord.
Life's scenes and objects speed by as if on a galloping steed;
Overturning and change—since ancient times, all things do not succeed.
Laugh not at the coarse and ugly women of Witch Mountain's crest;
At dawn they seek the Chu palace, by dusk a thatched door is their nest.
Men, disdain not the slow-paced horse, its humble gait;
Women, envy not the golden-threaded robe, your fate.
Have you not seen, after the songs and dances to the gods did cease,
The rustic elder still cherishes Zigui, in memories of peace?