Preface:
I have heard that the "Peony Pavilion" by the honorable Mr. Gong is written with a brush, and its sentiment "arises once and goes deep, the living can die, the dead can live." Every time I think about it, I am deeply moved in my heart, and my thoughts become more romantic. However, alas, life has its own destiny, and the number has already been set. Meeting and parting are governed by the laws of heaven and earth, and come and go within the bounds of square and round. Like a mayfly, I can only hope for a good prayer, and like a speck of dust, I can only hope for good fortune. Perhaps unexpectedly, we will meet among the flowers, or in a previous life, we made a promise to meet under the moon. Your purity is like frost on a jade, and your depth is unparalleled. My eyebrows are green and only long for your shadow. My feelings are like the warm and soft thoughts of the world. It is not a skillful brush that can express it, nor is it fine ink that can describe it. It is just the feeling of trying to imitate the honorable Mr. Xian's work. I used to think that the end of love was the end, and that the power of thought could suppress it. However, when faced with various illusions and the lingering thoughts in my heart, I can't help but feel calm again. So I foolishly moved the shallow and vulgar brush to express my crude words, and to express my longing.
The lyrics are as follows:
By observing "Morality" and "Nanhua," one can understand the predetermined fate. The hidden destiny of the Dao, by reading "The Analects" and "The Great Learning," one can see the rules of benevolence and the actions of rituals. Appreciating the ancient brushes to recognize their wonders, and understanding the thoughts of the masses through the dust of the past. All laws are seen as their foundation, and a thousand forms manifest their shadows. However, the origin of emotions is difficult to count, and the cause of thoughts in motion is not yet understood. It is quiet and vague, slowly silent and obscure. However, when I think about it, it is like the traces of the wind, and I often sigh at its movements like a Kunpeng. Even if I am a lonely person with extraordinary thoughts, I am not worthy of your attention. Even if I have the talent of a king, I cannot capture your image. Your existence is unknown, and once I go deep, it is difficult to return to normal.
When we haven't met, I stand idle at night and sleep with this thought. I admire the beauty of Hanggao and the appointment at Hengtang. When my pen touches the paper, it is in the golden wind and jade dew. When I write poetry and lyrics, it is in the tranquility of ten miles. When I experience it, I think about it every moment of the day, feeling the emotions of the "Guanju" and seeking the phoenix's message. When I play the qin, I can't create a complete melody, and when I gently stroke the strings, I can't produce a satisfying sound. Even if I play the seven strings to perform "Autumn Wind," I sigh at the difficulty of expressing my melancholy thoughts. Even if I play the flute to play "Xiao Xiang," I gradually calm down my worries. When I miss you, I wake up and listen to the dim and gloomy morning wind and the moon. I unintentionally stroll on the dangerous tower, leaning on the railing to share the deep thoughts of the locked autumn. When I open and close my eyes, I listen to the lingering and ethereal sound of the three-fold Lige song. I gaze at the clouds and water, wanting to speak but stopping, and longing for the end of the world. I know that the shadows that teach themselves to be disappointed are all illusions of electric smoke dreams, and my thoughts are like crazy words. I understand that the lightness of its rise and the confusion of its thoughts are all reduced to dust and fallen fluff. Its emotions sink deeper and longer, but they are not imaginary. It is difficult to recall the feelings that can be waited for, and the startled swan's reflection is just like this. I think about the past doubts about life and death, and I am ashamed of the mistakes and the weight of my thoughts.
However, the more I observe, the deeper and more detailed it becomes. Under this observation, I think more about the "Guanju" and "Moonrise" and pray for the clouds and rain in Gaotang. I am lost in the thoughts and hopes of "Jianjia" and "Zijin," and I am immersed in the dream of King Xiang. So Qin Jia Xu Shu's loyalty, Shanbo Yingtai's faithfulness, Shen Fu Chen Yun's unity, and Jiangtan Guan Ying's matching eyebrows, are all seen in the poems and the shadows of ancient brushes. I regret that Changqing's "Seeking the Phoenix" is just empty words and lightly waved away, and I pity Hanque's "Shangye" for falling into foolishness and ridicule. Luo Bu has become a shadow, and Hu Ji is still in the world of books. The bright moon pays homage to the pearl, and the green jade leaps forward. I lament the good fate that has been enjoyed, and it is not a trivial matter to part ways. It is all just a game, fearing to tarnish the pure heart of the future, and fearing to defile the loyal and innocent intentions. However, even though my sword is sharp, I am always alone. I regret that my heart is as sharp as a sword, and I hate that it is too light.
Therefore, I fold my hands and pray, bow my head and look forward, longing for the meeting of Changqing and Wenjun, and resting from the madness of seeking the phoenix. The clear reflection is not just a matter of the eyebrows, but it is known that the feelings in the heart have a number, and freely waving it away will not stop it. However, when I think about the broken shadows of the past, I think about the passing years and the flying red. I cherish the pure thoughts like a bright moon and the clear intentions like clean snow. I treasure the weight of this heart and guard the clarity of this emotion.
This is the end of my crude poem, and the brushwork is as follows:
Two Poems with My Beloved
My intentions are deep and not superficial, and I should not have too many lingering thoughts. I often gaze at the autumn shadows in the courtyard, and my worried thoughts are not fully expressed. The dim and faint shadows are all from the old moon, and the clear and sparse gestures have already turned to dust. The longing for each other is only a light madness, and I also hope to see the lotus in the secluded pond. I am not afraid of seeking the phoenix lightly, and I wake up from the thoughts of "Jianjia" with my eyebrows drooping. Fortunate enough to be a poet, not sad, and hoping for a beautiful and elegant appearance. I don't love poetry and books, but I am naturally talented and charming like the spring sun. The passing years are as fleeting as smoke dreams, and the weary traveler returns home from the end of the world.
Untitled · With Love
We have crossed the Hengtang together, and our hidden fragrance is like a cold scent. Graceful and elegant, like a quiet and clear frost. In the place where my thoughts gather, I am gentle and calm, but there is no chance for love. Don't be too cautious, have rest and have more, and send my longing to Changqing and Wenjun.
This article is synchronized and updated to xLog by Mix Space.
The original link is https://nishikori.tech/posts/prose/2020-04-20