The Golden Years

The ornate zither has, for no reason, fifty strings,

Each string, each bridge, recalls the years of my youth.

Zhuangzi dreamed at dawn and lost himself among butterflies,

Emperor Wang entrusted his lovesick heart to the cuckoo.

By the blue sea, the moon shines on pearls wet with tears,

In warm Lantian, jade breathes out mist.

This feeling could have become a memory,

But even then, I was already lost in bewilderment.

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