掌珠一颗儿三岁，鬓雪千茎父六旬。 岂料汝先为异物，常忧吾不见成人。 悲肠自断非因剑，啼眼加昏不是尘。 怀抱又空天默默，依前重作邓攸身。
Lament for My Son Cui Bai Juyi
A pearl that lasted for but three years; and now my temples are white than snow; at sixty I never imagined that you would precede me into the shady world; I felt sad that I would not live long enough to see you blossom; now my heart is cut by a sword; weeping so much, I have become half blind; how I miss the feel of you in my arms; I have become like Deng You1 of ancient days.
1. Deng You (?-326) allowed his own child to die while saving the
life of his nephew.
（Rewi Alley 译）
Mourning A-Ts’ui Po Chü-I
A three-year-old son, one pearl treasured so in the hand. A sixty-year-old father, hair a thousand streaks of snow,
I can’t think through it—you become some strange thing, and sorrow endless now you’ll never grow into a person.
There’s no swordstroke clarity when grief tears the heart, and tears darkening my eyes aren’t rinsing red dust away,
but I’m still nurturing emptiness—emptiness of heaven’s black black, this childless life stretching away before me.
（David Hinton 译） |
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