Tune: Prelude of Nightingale Singing
Dream of the Red Chamber
By William He
Granite tosses its hints of earlier creation,
Staggering around the eccentric lights.
Winds weep and Leonids fly,
Between the heavens and the plains,
In the dim light a carved ichthyosaur swims.
Now lies the silent meteor on,
But of old stone can't be deciphered,
Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font.
An immortal flower of fairyland,
Desiring to see the fair flawless jade.
Silhouette in a splendid corridor,
Wearing his hair in a long braid,
His grandeur can't give deep inner calm.
Ode to chrysanthemums,
Flashing from Asteria's glance,
Nightingale in response to the unheard tune.
Weeping willows onward press,
And softly lick the steps dark scarlet,
But melodious tweedle has a fall,
No dancers dancing in pairs and sets.
Sentimental girls often may,
Languish in pleasure's season boys,
The mental emptiness deepen too.
Sisters turn shadow into transient beauty,
Not to mock themselves with falsehood,
As the soul leaves the body bruised and torn.
In the eye of the beholder,
Satin cases poured in rich profusion,
When the glitter of his jewels sprays,
Doubling flames of candleabra right，
And bending with the peony's grace.
When spring has gone and youth has fled,
Which of her sweet companions remains,
The loud lament of the disconsolate chimera now,
Tears from the depth of despair,
Rise in the heart and gather to the eyes.
Cleansing affection from the temporal,
Nymph turns from her wan reflection in the glass,
Abstract picture of lustre into a specter-like tale.
Silence grows to awe within eyeballs,
Crabapples and panorama unseen,
Laughter in the garden echoed ecstasy as well.
Think who is possessed,
Indolence leaves a craving void,
Thrashed about by life's trickery,
Dream-crossed twilight between,
The genuine and sham lunatics even.
Tired of himself man straight repairs,
Yet knows not where to take his way,
Here history gathers the ghosts of the mind.
Drown his sorrows in vice,
The dove descending not just yet.
Patricians who lost the luster of the heart,
Grande dames do not expect to know,
The Infirm glory of the positive hour.