Song of Longing
Chŏng Ch’ŏl (1536–93)

At the time I was born

I was born to follow my lord.

Our lives were destined to be joined,

as even the heavens must have known.

When I was young

my lord loved me.

There was nothing to compare

with this heart and love.

All that I longed for in this life

was to live with him.

Now that I am older,

for what reason have I been put aside?

A few days ago, serving my lord

I entered the Moon Palace.

How does it happen since then

that I have descended to this lower world?

Three years it has been

since my hair, once combed, became tangled.

I have powders and rouge,

but for whom would I make myself lovely?

The cares that are knotted in my heart

pile up, layer upon layer.

It is sighs that build up,

tears that tumble down.

Life has an end;

cares are endless.

Indifferent time

is like the flowing of waters.

The seasons, hot and cold, seem to know

time and return as they go.

Hearing, seeing,

there are many things to sense.

Briefly the east wind blows

and melts away the fallen snow.

Two or three branches have bloomed

on the plum tree outside the window:

a bold brightness,

a fragrance deep and mysterious.

At dusk the moon

shines by the bedside

as if sensing him, rejoicing

—Is it my lord; could it be?

I wonder, if I broke off that blossom

and sent it to the place where my lord stays,

what would he think

as he looked at it?

Blossoms fall, new leaves appear,

and shade covers.

Silk curtains are lonely;

embroidered curtains are opened.

I close the lotus screen

and open the peacock screen …

How can a day be so tedious,

so full of cares?

I spread open the mandarin duck quilt,

take out the five-colored thread,

measure it with a golden ruler

and make a cloak for my lord

with skill,

with taste.

Gazing toward the place where my lord stays

I think of sending to him

these clothes in a jade white chest

on a pack frame of coral,

but he is so far, so far,

like a mountain, or a cloud.

Who is there to seek him out

over the road of ten thousand li?

When it reached him and was opened,

would he be pleased?

At night a frost falls;

the wild goose passes over with a cry.

Alone, I climb the tower

and open the jade curtain.

Above East Mountain the moon has risen

and far to the north a star appears.

Is it my lord? Happy,

tears come unbidden.

Let me extract this brightness

and send it to the Phoenix Tower:

fix it to the tower

and illuminate all directions,

that even the deepest mountains and valleys

may be as bright as day.

Heaven and earth are blockaded

under a white monochrome.

Men, even birds on the wing

have disappeared.

With the cold so intense

here, far to the south,

in the lofty Phoenix Tower

how much colder it must be!

Would that the sunny spring could be sent

to warm the place where my lord stays,

or that the sunlight bathing the thatched eaves

might be sent to the Phoenix Tower.

I tuck my red skirt up,

roll my blue sleeves halfway,

and as the day declines, by high, thin bamboos

I lean on a staff, lost in thought.

The brief sun sinks swiftly;

the long night settles aloft.

I set the inlaid lute

by the side of the blue lamp

and rest, hoping

to see my lord, even in a dream.

Cold, cold is the quilt!

O, when will night become day?

Twelve times each day,

thirty days each month,

I try, even for a moment, not to think,

that I may forget these cares,

but they are knotted within my heart,

they have pierced through my bones.

Even though ten doctors like P’ien Ch’üeh came,

what could they do with this illness?

Alas, my illness

is because of my lord.

I would rather die and become

a swallowtail butterfly.

I would light upon each flowering branch

one after another, as I went,

till I settled, with perfumed wings

upon the garments of my lord.

O, my lord, though you forget my existence,

I shall attend you.