I see the messy hills and fields are in the thin fog.
thin is the fog,
At dusk, after crows return home,
I hear the bugles horn.
Scents and wine have ran out and I feel so lost.
West wind blows, rushing the parasol leaves to drop.
Parasol leaves drop.
Alas! It is still autumn,
I still feel so lonesome.
Time only knows how to age people,
He doesn't believe that love is emotional.
I always hate the pavilion of parting,
Tears drop on spring clothes waking me up from drinking.
Abrupt west winds blew through the Chinese parasol last night,
And the moon looked so clear and bright.
For several times my sweet dreams were awoken,
On which tall building the goose made a sound all of a sudden?
Xiaoman, June 13， 2014作者: Xiaoman 时间: 2015-4-16 16:03 试译：【浣溪沙】 北宋◆晏殊
A new poetry plus a cup of wine,
In last year's scene the pavilion is old-time.
The sun is sinking west, when will it return?
I can't do anything with flowers which are fallen.
The déjà vu swallows are flying back home,
When I walk in the garden back and forth alone.
Last night the cricket constantly screamed.
It was midnight already,
I was startled and woken up from a deep dream.
Getting up, I wandered around stairs lonely.
Humans' noise had completely gone away,
Leaving moonlit outside the window in the cold.
In order to pursue fame, my hair had turned grey.
Now pines and bamboos back home should be old,
But I am here, being blocked from going back!
I really want to express my mind through this qin.
But with just a few bosom friends,
Even if I break all the strings, who would listen?
