Reading the Book of Songs
Leafing the yellowish Book of Songs
I seem to be letting out the bird from the cage, my ears assailed with bird's chirping.
Is it the bird that has long been extinguished?
Thank you, Master Confucius, for your having this recorded at the time.
This has surpassed the sorcerer's imprecation, and the bell of the temple,
Dispersing the original fear and breaking away from the official regulations.
Much ashamed, I would be so idiotic,
Having learned drawing magic figures and helped carrying the casket.
Now I am on the bank of the Yangtze and the Hui River.
With my white head bent, I am grieving together with the white reed catkins.
The boundless bleakness is the groan of the margin country.
Who is here to annotate my loyalty, and my love?