The humble room stands empty, though once ivory tablets filled its beds; withered grass and dead poplars, where songs and dances once rang.
Spiderwebs now cover the carved beams; green gauze is once more stretched across the papered windows. They say rouge is still thick and powder fragrant, so how have both temples turned gray?
Yesterday, white bones were sent to their graves in the yellow earth; tonight, beneath the red lanterns, lovers lie together.
Chests full of gold, chests full of silver, yet in the blink of an eye, they’re beggars, scorned by all.
We lament that others’ lives are short, never knowing that death awaits us when we return!
A good upbringing cannot ensure a man won’t become a bandit. One seeks a wealthy match, who would expect to end up in the pleasure quarters?
Discontent with a tiny official’s hat, he winds up bearing chains and shackles; yesterday, he pitied those cold in ragged coats, today, he resents the long purple robe.
In all this clamor, one finishes singing and another takes the stage, mistaking a foreign land for home. How absurd! In the end, they all sew wedding gowns for someone else!
