Yimusanfendi

Burying Flower Song

By Cao Xueqin
Tr. Yimusanfendi

Flowers fade flowers fly flowers fill all the sky,
The red vanishes the fragrance dies is there anyone who feels sad?
Softly tied gossamers are drifting and floating in the pavilion of spring,
The falling flocs lightly stick and strike the embroidered curtain.
 
The maiden in boudoir feels compassion for the end of spring,
Full of sorrows in heart and having no where to relieve;
Bring the flower hoe in hands and get out of the boudoir,
How cruel, coming and going again with trample on the flowers fallen?

Willow silks and elm-pods are certainly fragrant, 
They don't care the flying flowers of plum or peach,
The plum or peach can blossom again next year,
Next year inside the boudoir who will be there?

By March the fragrant nests have just been built,
The swallows among the girders are too heartless!
Next year though the blooming flowers can still be pecked,
But won't say the maiden is gone the tower is empty and the nests collapse.

A full year has three hundred sixty days,
The wind knives and frost swords cruelly oppress;
Bright charm and fresh beauties, how long can they stay?
They will be falling and wandering, difficult to seek in some day.

Blooming flowers easy to see but the falling ones difficult to seek,
In front of the stair-steps the flower burier is so weary,
Alone leaning on the flower hoe inwardly shedding tears,
Shedding tears on empty branches and the bloody marks appear.

Cuckoos don't sing and it's just the time at dusk,
She goes back with the hoe and closes the heavy doors;
Blue lamp shines on the wall and she just started to sleep,
And blankets still cold and a chill rain on the window knocks.

Being double distressed for what kind of things?
Half for cherishing half being annoyed by the spring.
Cherish the spring's sudden arrival and annoyed by its sudden departure,
It came quietly and silently it went!

Last night outside of the court, a mournful song was singed,
Do you know it is the spirit of flowers or of the birds?
The spirit of the flowers or of the birds is always difficult to stay,
Birds naturally stop speaking and flowers are naturally shy.
 
I wished under my arms grew my wings to fly,
Following the flowers to the end of the sky.
The end of sky, 
Where the fragrant mound lies?

It is better to collect in a silk bag the remains of the beauties,
And a handful of clean soil covers the glad grace;
Intrinsically you were pure to come and are pure to go.
Better than turn to mud and sludge falling into ditches.
 
Now I bury your remains when you are dead,
Who knows on which day my life will be end?
I am burying the flowers and others laugh me to be insane,
Another year who will be the one burying me?
 
Try to see when spring is almost gone and flowers fall,
That is the time for the young beauty to be old and die.
One day when the spring is end and young beauty is old,
Both not being known, the flowers fall and the maiden dies.