Author: 孤筝(lvbowen040427@163.com)

A New Telling

I scrolled my feed back to seventeen,
to decode old captions and the heart between.
Yet line by line I flushed with shame,
too young, too wild, too sure of flame.
I fancied depth, I borrowed sighs,
all melodrama in borrowed guise.
So now I steal old forms anew,
to patch a poem and show it you.

Let us say Xu Xian rode to Chang’an,
while White Snake dwelt in Huainan.
By grace of fate they met by Broken Bridge,
yet stayed like moon in water, bloom in mist.
The scholar was but rootless down,
with empty sleeves, how could he climb?
He only praised the realm in passing,
still stubborn-hearted, raw with time.

Anime, games, and galgame dreams,
consorts crowd the slopes of Lishan.
Advance, and there are lush and wanton tunes;
retreat, and pure love still holds command.
Since ancient days love seldom rounds to wholeness;
only drifting grace keeps floating on.
Why roam famed rivers and mountains at all,
when even one true confidant is hard won?

At times I hear a woodland bird,
and chase the moonlight through my lone shadow.
Shang and Shen still meet again someday;
in this world, no Peach Blossom Pool is easy to find.
Long devotion is like the moon in water,
while worldly dust forever startles waves.
I ask only for a single ladleful,
to drink the chill of moonlight from the cup.

Spring wind warms Yumen Pass;
oranges grow in northern Shaanxi and in Huainan.
Though worldly ties be spent upon the pagoda,
Qinhuai is still only several ranges away.
Spell against spell, tribulation after tribulation,
even if Jinshan floods, a sail remains.
I would tip heaven and earth and overturn the Huai,
wash all of Chang’an with sifted yellow sand.

New text and old affairs divide in two,
right and wrong alike turn dreamlike.
So let the waters of Qinhuai tonight
carry my tangled thoughts back toward Huainan.

Translated in a GPT-5.4 Codex style.

Gu Zheng
2025.5.20
in Xi’an

Published on 2025-05-20 at 孤筝の温暖小家, last modified on 2025-05-20

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Author: 孤筝(lvbowen040427@163.com)

The East is Red

Midstream strokes resound through the skies, as night by night the river’s roar doth rise.

Not youth alone beholds the morning sun—ten thousand miles of land in crimson run.

Dec. 26, 2024
Xi’an

Published on 2024-12-26 at 孤筝の温暖小家, last modified on 2024-12-26

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Author: 孤筝(lvbowen040427@163.com)

——This poem is dedicated to the Polaris in my life

A lovely traveler passed through a landscape unseen by others, bringing with her exotic warm breezes that swept across parched fields, rustled through treetops, and rippled the lake into shimmering waves.
The fruit trees, enchanted by this beauty, hurriedly blossomed and bore fruit; birds in the forest scoured for the few remaining flowering branches, weaving them into a crown for her.
Strolling through the falling petals, the traveler, unable to refuse such generosity, plucked a few crimson fruits; feeling shy about taking without giving, she emptied her pockets of all the flower seeds she carried, scattering them over every cracked patch of earth.
Only the field remained barren, its heart filled with shyness and guilt—what could it possibly offer this delightful maiden?
Summoning all its strength, it urged the seeds to grow swiftly, hoping she might witness the blossoms before she left.
But the traveler was never meant to stay—the scenery was beautiful, the trees and birds most attentive, yet this was no place to call home.
She departed, leaving behind wistful fruit trees, birds, and the field.
The field’s flowers never reached her hands, though perhaps the next traveler would find a garden in full bloom.
Yet none grieved,
for spring had come.

Winter gave way to spring, autumn yielded to winter.
Fruits became saplings, fledglings took their first flights; tree rings thickened, and summer rains polished wings to a gleam.
In the garden the field had tenderly nurtured, the last chrysanthemum outlived its season, bare stems swaying in the cold wind.
No longer desolate, the land had seen the traveler’s seeds sprout through the seasons, each flower blooming in its turn as promised—drinking dawn’s dew, basking in morning sun, dancing in the breeze, resting under moonlight.
In spring, the field wove a crown of gardenias and hawthorn blossoms, white as the traveler’s dress.
In summer, it fashioned a basket of crape myrtle and hibiscus, though the hibiscus wilted by dusk, much like her fleeting visit.
In autumn, it dreamed of a bed sweet with osmanthus and aster, but the wind carried the fragrance away, indifferent to its longing.
The flowers, embracing their purpose, reveled in their brief lives, preparing in the soil for journeys yet to come.
The traveler never returned, unaware that her casually scattered seeds had grown into a garden, and the field never had its chance to offer its finest tribute.
Winter gave way to spring, autumn yielded to winter.
The field longed for snow, a warm blanket for the seeds below. Should the traveler ever revisit this hidden paradise, the garden would be worthy of her.
In the drizzle of early winter, it drifted into sleep, dreaming of October’s last dandelions riding the wind, chasing the blush on her cheeks.
“Aren’t you afraid the seeds won’t survive the cold?” asked the trees and birds, as the field lay bare once more.
“It’s alright. I’ve seen spring.”
For spring had come.

Published on 2024-11-13 at 孤筝の温暖小家, last modified on 2024-11-13

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Author: 孤筝(lvbowen040427@163.com)

Preface

During the National Day holiday, I traveled through Shanxi with Black Myth: Wukong, visiting three cities in southern Shanxi—Jincheng, Linfen, and Yuncheng—and composed five poems to briefly document the journey.

Southern Shanxi Journey · Part 1

The door hides broken statues, the eaves bear golden chimes.
Dabs of emerald dye the tangled woods, splashes of ink unfold jade skirts.
Fresh branches climb rotten wood, the old lead the young.
Lin Huiyin would weep—can a thousand years leave blank space?

Lone Zither
October 2, 2024
Jade Emperor Temple, Fucheng Guan Yu Temple, Qinglian Temple, Jincheng

At the Jade Emperor Temple, flash photography is banned in the Hall of Twenty-Eight Constellations, and the statues are hidden behind iron railings, their paint peeling, some even headless or limbless—a regrettable sight.
The statues at Fucheng Guan Yu Temple are mostly modern recreations, crudely made and unappetizing. The architecture, however, is worth a look.
Qinglian Temple sits high on a distant mountain, with breathtaking scenery along the way. In autumn, the mountains are lush, the waters clear, dotted with broad red and yellow leaves under a cloudless sky—a land of splendor.

Southern Shanxi Journey · Part 2

Weary, the Green Emperor has yet to take his post, morning mist rushes to break the dawn’s chill.
Just crossed seas of people to glimpse the Buddha’s face, now climb forested clouds to visit the temple.
Nine golden bodies, nine lotuses, three gates, three altars.
Before the scaled sunset gathers dusk, my light steed has leaped over layered peaks.

Lone Zither
October 3, 2024
Kaihua Temple, Iron Buddha Temple, Dinglin Temple, Jincheng

Early in the morning, I took the bus to Gaoping, first visiting Kaihua Temple before returning to Iron Buddha Temple. The latter, newly reopened, was packed, tucked deep in a small village courtyard. After queuing for over an hour, I glimpsed the Buddha’s face for just two minutes. Fortunately, I met a family of three in line—open-minded parents unbothered by anime and games. (Their twin-tailed daughter was adorable, by the way.)
Dinglin Temple’s lotus caisson ceiling had also recently reopened, and I was lucky to see it—truly magnificent.

Southern Shanxi Journey · Part 3

Prelude to Water Melody

The Buddha feasts on incense offerings, stone tablets drown in dust.
I ask the hills beneath his seat: do sutras reach the divine?
Shorn locks renounce desire, abstinence purges the halls,
smiles mask wrath. They know the laws of five aggregates,
yet fail to grasp the body of ignorance.
False cymbals, temple repairs, deceiving the credulous.
Promises of merit mimic the Tathagata’s great vehicle.
Bribes buy devotion, virtue lacks faith—
the Eight Precepts mislead the sangha.
The chime-keeper chants wealth, the false Buddha saves worldly monks.

Lone Zither
October 4, 2024
Little Western Heaven, Linfen

Eight Precepts:

1. No killing.
2. No stealing.
3. No sexual misconduct.
4. No lying.
5. No intoxication.
6. No adornments.
7. No high or broad beds.
8. No eating after noon.

Yellow Brow’s Counter:
No killing? Hatred never ends.
No stealing? Why distinguish strong from weak?
No lust? All sentience is sin.
No lies? Dreams, bubbles, shadows, void.
No wine? Sorrow ebbs and flows.
No pleasure? Beauty fades in a blink.
No sloth? Suffering binds without release.
No indulgence? All acts are joyless.

The lower temple of Little Western Heaven was unremarkable, filled with devotees praying for wealth and sons. A nun (?) sat nearby striking a chime, chanting promises of billions in daily earnings—utterly cynical.
The upper temple’s Mahavira Hall boasts astonishing hanging sculptures, grand in scale. Sadly, the crowds left little time for close inspection. I arrived too late to receive Shanxi’s official commemorative postcard—a slight regret.

Southern Shanxi Journey · Part 4

An ancient temple guards Pingyang, three quakes veil the Buddha’s light.
The towering glazed pagoda, the ethereal Arhat Hall.
Scriptures sought through merit, rain prayed for by kings.
A canon passed to the East, the golden age of Tang began.

Lone Zither
October 6, 2024
Guang Sheng Temple, Linfen

Guang Sheng Temple in Hongtong County features a Rain God Temple in its lower complex, its walls covered in murals, though poorly preserved. The dim light inside made details hard to discern. Side rooms displayed official scanned reproductions—vivid and lifelike, truly masterful.
The upper temple’s Flying Rainbow Pagoda is clad in glazed tiles, though only the first floor is open, with little to see inside.
The rear courtyard’s Tianzhongtian Hall houses three colossal Buddhas, over ten feet tall, their elegant forms a marvel.

Southern Shanxi Journey · Part 5

Encountering Wei Taoran at Stork Tower

No immortal of wine was I born,
inking brows, grinding words.
At Stork Tower, I duel Wang Zhihuan,
below Taihang, I ponder the Chairman.
You roam the world a free spirit,
I’m trapped in the ivory tower, forever young.
If heaven and earth offer no refuge,
let poetry debts buy wine.

Lone Zither
October 6, 2024
Yongle Palace, Guangren King Temple, Stork Tower, Guan Yu Temple, Yuncheng

A rushed group tour in Yuncheng left little time for details. At Stork Tower, I spotted a stall boldly labeled “Selling Original Poetry.” After touring the new tower, I revisited the collection, struck by lingering awe. Wei Taoran, inspired by a Dali poetess, returned to literature—I too once wrote many poems, mostly idle scribbles, never considering it a livelihood.
In high school, I gifted my poetry drafts to someone. After the breakup, I scarcely wrote again. First, gaming consumed me—I read little, my pen dry, my efforts unsatisfying. Second, life blurred like fog—neither piercing nor clear, I drifted in haze. Third, the ivory tower’s monotony left me numb, devoid of poetic spark.

Afterword

The three cities of southern Shanxi each have their charm.
Jincheng is bustling, with efficient buses and dedicated routes to attractions. Arriving downtown, the streets blaze with light.
Linfen is peculiar—even areas around the bus station are dark, and distant sites lack dedicated transit, making private hires costly. Its public toilets are uniquely varied—I biked past twenty-plus on shared e-scooters, no two alike.
Yuncheng thrives—shops and stalls pack main roads and alleys, with rumors of north-south markets (and delicious, honest-to-goodness buns).

Published on 2024-10-08 at 孤筝の温暖小家, last modified on 2024-10-08

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Author: 孤筝(lvbowen040427@163.com)

“I have a dream that one day, the brilliant sunlight will pierce through the dark forest.”

But here, the sun was setting, now only revealing the tip of its crown above the distant mountains, like a dazzling gem embedded in the peaks. The child had already run far ahead, bathed together with the grassland in the golden hues of twilight.

The sun is about to set, and your child isn’t afraid?

“Of course not. She knows the sun will rise again tomorrow.”

Good night.

Published on 2024-09-09 at 孤筝の温暖小家, last modified on 2024-09-09

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Author: 孤筝(lvbowen040427@163.com)

Self-Statement

Memories of West Lake After the Rain

Heaven and Earth in a Cup

Casual Notes (Part 1)

Treading on Grass

Fishing for the Moon

[Variation] Prelude to Water Melody • Remembering an Old Friend

May I Be the Star and You the Moon

Playful Dedication to Jiarui

Published on 2023-11-22 at 孤筝の温暖小家, last modified on 2023-11-22

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Author: 孤筝(lvbowen040427@163.com)

Inseparable

Winter

Topic: The world will end in 10 minutes. What would you do?

The human heart is on the left side, so how can an embrace make hearts align?

Poet, Torch, Traveler

The Sun Is Out

A Three-Line Love Poem for You

Leaning on the Railing, I Ask

A Normal Day

Little Joys

Travel Notes

Red Carpet

Published on 2023-11-18 at 孤筝の温暖小家, last modified on 2023-11-18

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Author: 孤筝(lvbowen040427@163.com)

Published on 2023-01-28 at 孤筝の温暖小家, last modified on 2023-01-28

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Author: 孤筝(lvbowen040427@163.com)

“Bare hills reveal the sky’s vast dome;
Moonlit river flows in clarity.”
— Huang Tingjian, Ascending the Happy Tower

I lost the match, clutching my aching hand,
trudging alone along the roadside.

Autumn dusk yellows autumn leaves,
autumn wind scatters autumn longing.

Pale ginkgo leaves fall like fine rain,
brown sycamore leaves spill between the lines.

This apricot-hued snow blurs my vision—
momentarily indistinguishable:
which are sycamore’s crimson descent,
which are ginkgo’s drifting vermilion,
still adorned with youths’ bustle
and lovers’ tears.

Let northern fallen timber bury
the solitude of homeward wanderers.

O southern wind,
might you grant us
the same southern snowfall?

September 28, 2022
Xi’an

Published on 2022-09-28 at 孤筝の温暖小家, last modified on 2022-09-28

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Author: 孤筝(lvbowen040427@163.com)

You stand on the bridge to gaze at the view,
While someone watches you from a tower.
The bright moon adorns your window,
And you adorn another’s dream.

— Fragment by Bian Zhilin

How I wish for a doorway,
Where morning sunlight falls on the grass.
We stand there, leaning against the door,
Low as it is, the sun shines bright.
The grass sows its seeds, the wind shakes the leaves,
We stand, silent, and it is enough.

— Gu Cheng, A Generation, Avoidance, Before the Door

Spring sorrow waits for wine to drown,
Boats rock on the river, curtains beckon from towers.
Time slips away too soon—
Cherries redden, bananas green.

— A Twig of Mume Blossoms by Jiang Jie

From now on, I care not for fine nights,
Let the bright moon sink west without me.

— Writing Emotion by Li Yi

The hills have trees, and trees have branches,
My heart adores you, but you do not know.

— Song of the Yue Boatman, Anonymous

The carved die inlaid with red beans—
Deep in my bones, do you know this longing?

— New Lyrics to Willow Branches by Wen Tingyun

A crane’s shadow crosses the cold pond,
The frigid moon buries the flower’s soul.

— Dream of the Red Chamber

Though knowing this love brings no good,
I can’t help but ache with tender madness.

— Li Shangyin

What the world holds least firm—
Youth fades like flowers from the mirror, from the tree.

— Butterfly in Love with Flowers by Wang Guowei

Not a flower, not a mist,
Coming at midnight, gone by dawn,
Like a spring dream—how long does it stay?
Like morning clouds—where does it drift?

— Not a Flower by Bai Juyi

Helpless before morning’s chill rain, evening’s wind—
Life’s long regrets flow east like endless rivers.

— Li Yu’s poetry

Drunk, I forget the sky mirrors the water,
A boatful of clear dreams presses down the Milky Way.

— Inscription on Longyang’s Green Grass Lake by Tang Wenru

Free petals drift light as dreams,
Endless drizzle fine as sorrow.

— Silk-Washing Stream by Qin Guan

In youth, I listened to rain in song-filled towers,
Red candles dim behind silk curtains.
In middle age, I listened to rain on a traveler’s boat,
Wide river, low clouds, lone goose crying in west wind.
Now I listen to rain beneath a temple’s eaves,
My hair already streaked with stars.
Joys and sorrows, partings and reunions—all unfeeling.
Let the raindrops on the steps fall till dawn.

— Listening to the Rain by Jiang Jie

The moon sets, crows cry, frost fills the sky,
River maples, fishing fires—sleeping in sorrow.

— Mooring by Maple Bridge at Night by Zhang Ji

That gentlest bow of your head,
Like a lotus flower shy of the cool breeze.

— By Chance, Sayonara by Xu Zhimo

If there is an afterlife, I’d be a tree,
Standing eternal, without joy or sorrow.
Half rooted in earth, serene,
Half dancing in the wind;
Half offering shade,
Half basking in sunlight.
Silent, proud,
Never leaning, never seeking.

— If There Is an Afterlife by Sanmao

So I open the yellowed title page,
Fate bound it clumsily.
Tearfully, I read it again and again,
Yet must admit—
Youth is a book too hastily written.

— Youth by Xi Murong

Let life be beautiful like summer flowers,
And death like autumn leaves.

The world has kissed my soul with its pain,
Asking for its return in songs.

Only through the grind of hell
Can one forge the power to create heaven;
Only fingers bleeding from the strings
Can play the world’s most haunting music.

When you weep for missing the sun,
You also miss the stars.

The sky leaves no trace of wings,
But I have flown.

My eyes rain for her,
But my heart holds an umbrella—
This is love.

— Stray Birds, Gitanjali by Rabindranath Tagore

White sun, scattered clouds—startled apart,
Beneath the flowers, no one speaks of idleness.

— Floating Life by Gu Zhe

Ten miles of flat lake, frost-filled sky,
Each inch of dark hair grieves fleeting youth.
Gazing alone at the moon, longing for care,
I envy not immortals, but lovebirds paired.

— From the film A Chinese Ghost Story

Morning breezes will still brush my face,
Cuckoos will still sing on branches,
Earth will still breathe its fragrance,
Red maples will still flutter and fade.
I choose to believe, as ever,
That amid life’s cold ashes,
Remembering all about you
Was always my lifelong sorrow.

— Zhang Hansi, Abnormal Human Syndromes (Léont Blanc)

Octopus pot—
A fleeting dream
Under the summer moon.

— Matsuo Bashō

Flower shadows sway—
I long to tread them,
Moonlit crags ahead.

— Hara Sekitei

Grass in haze,
Water soundless—
Dusk falls.

— Yosa Buson

A lone horse, dust-stained,
A thousand peaks at dawn and dusk.
Gazing far where the sunset fades,
I linger toward distant hills.
Old post-station flowers by the road,
A wild village, bamboo fences aglow.
Who pities my backward glance,
Step by step, longing for southern boughs?

— Staying Late at Bamboo Lodge, Remembering Past Travels in Ganyue by Liu Changqing (Tang Dynasty)

Published on 2022-09-16 at 孤筝の温暖小家, last modified on 2022-09-16

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