《嗟怨薄命》（凡五） A lament for fortune’s frailty
1. 人寂靜，月更光明。慾海情天箇的孽債未清。離合悲歡雖則係有定，做乜名花遭際總是凋零。你睇楊妃玉骨埋山徑，昭君留墓草青青。倫落小青悉弔影，十娘飲恨一水盈盈。大抵生長紅顔多半是薄命，何況我地青樓花粉更累在癡情。 既係做到楊花多半是水性。點學得出泥不染都重表自己堅貞？怕只怕悲秋桐葉飄金井，重要學寒梅偏捱得雪霜凌。我想花木四時都是樂境，總係愁人相對就會飲恨吞聲。唉！須要自醒。命薄誰堪証。不若向百花墳上訴吓生平。
Man is lonely, the moon shines all the brighter.
Those sinful debts of the sea of lust and of the heaven of love are still unpaid.
Since parting and meeting, sorrow and gladness, have their season;
Why is there at all times a blight on famous flowers?
Look you! Yong Fe’s jade bones were buried beside the mountain track.
The grass remainded green above Chhiu-kwan’s tomb.
In fine, from birth to womanhood more than the half among rosy girls are ill-fated;
How much the more are we, flowers and paint of love’s arbour, injured by lustful passions.
Since we are willow blossoms, more than the half of us are weak as water;
How can we learn to start stainless from the mire, ever displaying ourselves strong and pure?
I fear, I do but fear, that sad autumn will whirl the elm leaves into the golden well;
Therefore I must ever be as the winter plum-tree which steadfastly endures the spite of snow and frost.
Methinks in all four seasons flowers and trees are as a happy land.
Only sad men, in face of one another, gulp down their grief and stifle their words.
Ah! Needs must I myself be wakeful.
Who can bear witness to fortune’s frailty?
I were best recount my way of life o’er the Tomb of a Hundred Flowers.
Lament fortune’s frailty as you face the weeping willow!
To speed the old and greet the new is alike the work of that pair of mincing eyes.
See how pliantly she greet the wind, in how slim-waisted a fashion!
And see how a frown locks together her eyebrows; certes, her discontent is long lasting.
Pure, pure, the delicate body relies on the spring for nurture.
Only I grieve that it has suffered men’s plucking and snapping; prithee, how should not my heart be wounded?
Though I be loth to wed the east-wind, yet my heart has no other bent.
Perforce must I bear men the grudge that I go from my country and forsake my village.
If you ask is passion short or long, in either case it is a debt of sin.
I fear the pain of parting; I cannot long endure its usages.
You flout my insensate love and drive me to the Yong Kwan gate.
Lightly drift my thoughts.
After the body has passed away, the heart’s desire is perishable.
I were best shed my tears for the Hundred Flowers, and be transformed into a willow windblown on the face of the water.
Lament fortune’s frailty as you face the lotus-flower!
Would that I could, as thou canst, start flawless from the water.
I remember how wise men and pretty maidens come, for thy sake, to bribe the summer.
In lonely state stands thy jade body, like to fairy-land’s magic blossoms.
So at due time thy value rises.
What luxury of splendour is in those thousand flushes of red, those myriad tints of green!
Moonshine on the water, flowers mirrored in the glass, I know not whether they are true or false;
The bruised leaf blown off by the autumn wind, I know not on what home it falls;
In likewise I know not what day will kill passion’s seed and passion’s root.
Ah! Truly ‘tis fearsome.
Water and fire can scarce annual our passions.
It may be that the mystic lotus-bowl can transform our buds whose root is in the ocean of sin.
Lament fortune’s frailty to the Dryandra tree!
Blown desolate a leaf deplores the autumn wind;
Still young and green, the new tendril knows a myriad kinds of grief;
Yet these same tendrils, after a slight shower, are wondrously transformed.
Leaves in their rustling perforce inspire the poet’s dream;
Since, then, the minstrel ever devises his song under the greenwood shade;
As a bosom friend, betimes he should plant the Dryandra at his arbour’s side,
Nor wait till its wood burns e’er he take cognizance thereof.
I grieve, I do but grieve, that, once autumn is come, leaves riot at random;
Prithee, where is the merit of infecting men with sorrow and anguish?
Nay, but your heart is ever the first to thrill in pity of fragrance and in mourning for the jewel.
I fear that the wind will blow to destruction my delicate form; send me betimes news of your pity.
Take minute thought! How many famous flowers can endure the weight of the frost films?
Ah! Your care is used amiss.
At mention hereof my heart grows sorrowful.
From of yore the only tree, which, as autumn passed, feared no old age, was but the green fir deep hidden in the river glen.
Lament fortune’s frailty as you face the winter plum-tree!
How can I vie with you who alone usurp kingship of flowers?
Your ice-crusted skin and bones of jade make men to love you.
Though proud are your limbs, yet anywhere they can be planted.
High up, then, I set you in the round flower-vase; bashfully I face you.
Prithee, in how many past existences did your merits win you that crystal, gem-like form?
Lonely I cherish virtue of heart, though plunged in the ocean of sin.
Peers in my purity are the willow’s weeping leaves, the lotus-flower, and the topaz-tree.
Methinks, that the famous flower is none so willing to be rifled by vagrant bees.
But patience is needful.
Leave the green hill unaltered!
When my flower debts are paid in full, then as of old I may reach the isles of bliss.