Author: Bai Juyi
In the tenth year of Yuanhe, Yu moved to Sima, belonging to Jiujiang County. Next autumn, Pukou will see off guests and listen to pipa players in the middle of the night.
Listen to its voice, there is the voice of Kyoto; Ask the man, Ben Chang 'an advocates women and learns pipa from Mu Cao. older
Color decline, dedicated to Jia's wife. Then he ordered wine and asked him to play a few songs quickly. The songs were all merciful. Talking about the happiness of youth, today.
Wandering and haggard, wandering between rivers and lakes. I have been an official for two years, and I feel very at ease and have the intention to move.
Because Long song gave it the name Pipa every 6 12 words. 〕
In the evening, I bid farewell to a guest on Xunyang River. Maple leaves and mature rushes rustle in autumn.
I, the host, have dismounted, my guest has boarded his boat, and we raise our cups, hoping to drink-but, alas, there is no music.
Although we drank a lot of wine, we were not happy. When we were leaving each other, the river mysteriously widened in the direction of the full moon.
We heard a sudden sound, a guitar crossed the water, the host forgot to go home and the guests left.
We followed the melody, asked the player's name, and the voice was interrupted ... and then she reluctantly answered.
We moved the boat closer to hers, invited her to join us, filled the pot with wine and started the party again.
However, before she came to us, we called a thousand times and urged her for a thousand times, but she still hid half of her face behind her guitar from us.
... she turned the tuning pin and tested several strings, and even before she played, we could feel her feelings.
Every string is a kind of meditation, and every note is a kind of deep thinking, as if she were telling us the pain of her life.
She frowned, bent her fingers, and then started her music, letting her heart share everything with us bit by bit.
She brushed the strings, slowly twisted, swept and plucked, first the air in the rainbow skirt, then the six small ones.
Big strings hum like rain, and small strings whisper like secrets.
Humming, whispering-and then mixing together, like pouring large and small pearls into a plate of jade.
Between Guan Ying's words, the bottom of the flower is slippery, and spring water flows along the beach.
By checking its cold touch, this string seems to be broken, as if it can't pass; And notes, fade away.
The depth of sadness and the hiding of sadness are more told in silence than in voice.
A silver vase suddenly burst, pouring out a stream of water, jumping out of the conflict and blow between armored horses and weapons.
Before she put down the pick, her stroke was over, and all four strings made a sound, just like tearing silk.
The east ship was silent, and the west ship was silent. We saw the white autumn moon entering the river.
... when she slowly put the pick back into the string, she stood up, adjusted her clothes, and was serious and polite.
Tell us how she spent her girlhood in the capital and lived in her parents' house in Toad Hill.
She mastered the guitar at the age of thirteen, and her name ranked first in the list of musicians.
Song often teaches excellent talents, and her beauty is the envy of all the leading dancers.
How did the aristocratic youths in Wuling compete generously? Countless red silks were given to a song.
The silver comb inlaid with shells was broken by her rhythm, and the bloody skirt was stained with wine.
Season after season, joy followed, and neither the autumn moon nor the spring breeze attracted her attention.
Until her brother went to war, and then her aunt died, and the night passed, and the night came, and her beauty disappeared.
There were fewer and fewer cars and horses in front of the door, and finally she married herself to a businessman.
Who, first of all, stole money, accidentally left her and went to Fuliang to buy tea a month ago.
She was guarding an empty boat at the mouth of the river. Around the hut, the moon was bright and the river was cold.
Sometimes in the middle of the night, she dreams of her victory and is awakened from her dream by her hot tears.
Her first guitar note made me sigh. Now, after listening to her story, I feel even sadder.
We were all unhappy until the end of the day, when we met. We understand. What is the relationship between acquaintances? .
A year ago, I left the capital and came here. Now I am a sick Jiujiang exile.
Jiujiang is so far away that I haven't heard music, neither strings nor bamboo sounds for a whole year.
The humidity near Cannes is very low, and the house is surrounded by bitter reeds and yellow rushes.
What can you hear here in the morning and evening? The cuckoo's bleeding cry, the ape's sobbing.
I often pick up the wine and drink it alone in the spring morning and the autumn night in the moonlight.
Of course, there are folk songs and bagpipes in the village, but they are rough and harsh, and they are harsh in my ears.
Tonight, when I heard you playing the guitar, I felt that my hearing was illuminated by wonderful music.
Don't leave us. Come, sit down. Play it for us again. I will write a Long song about guitar. ..
... she was moved by my words, stood there for a while, and then sat down to play her strings-they sounded even sadder.
Although the tune was different from what she had played before, all the listeners covered their faces.
But which of them cried the most? , this Jiujiang officer. My blue sleeves are wet.
………………………………………………………
In the tenth year of Yuanhe, he was demoted to Sima of Jiujiang County. The following autumn, I sent my guests to Songpukou. At night, I heard a pipa player on the boat, listening to the sound of pipa, jingling, with the charm of Beijing dialect. The man who plays the pipa turned out to be a geisha in Chang 'an. He studied under two masters, Mu and Cao. He was old and frail, and married a businessman. I ordered my men to set the wine and let her play some music happily. After the play, her face was sad. She told the story of her happy life when she was young, saying that now she is wandering, suffering and wandering around. Being an official in Beijing for two years, I feel very peaceful and comfortable. I was moved by her words, and I felt the feeling of being demoted tonight. So I wrote this seven-character poem, recited it to her and gave it to her. The whole poem * * * 6 16 words, titled Pipa Xing.
One night in autumn, I sent my friend to Xunyang River.
Maple leaves and reed flowers are ringing in the autumn wind.
My friend and I got off the horse and boarded the ship that was about to travel.
Raise a glass and drink, but unfortunately there is no geisha around.
Drunk, still not fun, so sad when leaving,
I saw the rising moon immersed in the boundless river.
Suddenly, the pipa sounded on the river.
Forgetting to go home, my friend is not in the mood to sail.
We explored where the pipa sound came from and asked in a low voice who played it.
The pipa stopped, but the player tried to say it but didn't answer.
We rowed in a hurry and invited the pipa players to meet each other.
Fill up the wine, turn on the lights, and have a feast again.
After waiting for a long time, the pipa girl came shyly.
He held the pipa and covered half of her face.
She turned the spindle and tried it gently three or two times.
Before it became a tune, it revealed infinite affection.
She played a low and melancholy tone with hidden fingering,
Her voice was sad and thoughtful, as if telling her life's misfortunes.
She is natural and graceful, writes freely and plays constantly.
It seems that the infinite pain buried deep inside comes out.
She tapped the strings, manipulated them slowly, wiped them skillfully and fiddled with them.
Play the famous song "Colorful Feather" first, and then the dance music "Six Yao".
The big strings are noisy, and the sound is heavy and long, like a shower.
Small strings cut, the voice is urgent and thin, like a whisper.
It was she who alternately plucked the big string and the small string,