A Journey Through Mountains and Waters, A Song Along the Way: Ren Tianming
Was it I who drowned my sorrows in wine, then awoke to sleep,
or was it sorrow, weary in spirit, that became one with me?
I do not compose the poems; the poems compose me.
I do not drink the wine; the wine drinks me.
When did my footsteps begin to tread on cold, moss-covered ground?
What in this world most quickly makes the young grow old?
Half is frost piled in the heart, half the vanishing of a loved one's shadow.
I do not leave the moon; the moon leaves me.
I do not long for home; home longs for me.
Returning to the bridge of old, the red peonies no longer know me.
In the end, did I walk the road,
or is the road walking me?
The wind sweeps past the west window; the guest's ferryboat is nowhere to be found.
Did I pass through spring and autumn,
or did spring and autumn pass through me?
Each year, a riverbank of fresh grass looks just as it did before.
Deep in the night, a solitary lamp shines on my regrets.
I look back at the green river, and all I see are tears.
When old affections brush my shoulder, I fear the moonlight may have dimmed.
A journey through mountains and waters, a song along the way.
A flute carries the cold drizzle to its end.
At the end of every rustling leaf, the dream softly joins the song.
In the end, did I walk the road,
or is the road walking me?
The wind sweeps past the west window; the guest's ferryboat is nowhere to be found.
Did I pass through spring and autumn,
or did spring and autumn pass through me?
Each year, a riverbank of fresh grass looks just as it did before.
Deep in the night, a solitary lamp shines on my regrets.
I look back at the green river, and all I see are tears.
When old affections brush my shoulder, I fear the moonlight may have dimmed.
A journey through mountains and waters, a song along the way.
A flute carries the cold drizzle to its end.
At the end of every rustling leaf, the dream softly joins the song.
A journey through mountains and waters, a song along the way.
A flute carries the cold drizzle to its end.
At the end of every rustling leaf, the dream softly joins the song.
