Lo Pin-wang (before 640–684?)
The Western Course: a cicada’s voice singing;
A southern cap: longing for home intrudes.
How can I bear those shadows of black locks
4 That come here to face my “Song of White Hair”?
Dew heavy on it, can fly no farther toward me;
The wind strong, its echoes easily lost.
No one believes in nobility and purity—
8 On my behalf who will explain what’s in my heart?
Translated by Stephen Owen
The poet’s youth was spent in poverty. He enlisted in the army and was stationed in the Western Regions and in Szechwan. Lo is considered one of the four most important poets in the early part of the T’ang period.
Paraphrase by the translator:
When the sun moves through the Western Course of the heavens, a sign of autumn, the cicada sings. Its singing causes homesickness in me, like that once felt by Chung Yi of Ch’u, wearing his southern cap as a memento of his homeland when a prisoner in the state of Ch’in. Like him, I am a southerner imprisoned in the North. How can I bear that those wings of the cicada, so often used to describe the curls of beautiful ladies, come to listen to my “Song of White Hair,” like that which Cho Wen-chün [see selection 129] sang when Ssu-ma Hsiang-ju abandoned her? Those black cicada wings like curls remind me of youth and attractive beauty, unbearable to one who is growing old and feels rejected by his ruler. Furthermore, since the singing of the cicada is a reminder of autumn, the season associated with the coming of old age, how can I bear that it come any closer to me, reminding me of my own aging? But perhaps I have misunderstood the cicada: associated with purity and old age, it may be a kindred spirit. If my ruler hears it, it may remind him of my purity and old age, and thus obtain my release. In this respect, its singing is like pleading my case to the throne. But it, like me, is caught up in the autumn situation that it represents: the dew is so heavy upon it that it can fly no farther and thus will not be able to get into the palace and reach the ruler’s ears. Furthermore, though I might hope that its singing will be heard from outside, the autumn wind is so strong that its voice will be drowned out. Even if his singing, or my own in this poem, were to reach near the throne, it would do no good, because no one believes any more in nobility or purity—neither mine, my innocence of crime, nor that of the cicada. Thus there is no one to state my case for me.