The Tang Xianzu Memorial Hall in Fuzhou is a comprehensive cultural venue built to commemorate Tang Xianzu, one of the world’s hundred great cultural figures and a master of Ming‑dynasty drama in China. It is also one of Jiangxi Province’s ten major memorial halls dedicated to historical luminaries.
Opera | The Timeless, Melodious Lyrics of Kunqu Opera
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2023-01-11
The elegance of Kunqu opera lies in its highly literary scripts;
The beauty of Kunqu opera lies in its delicate, expressive performances and its lingering, mellifluous water‑mill style of singing; even more so, it resides in those exquisitely beautiful lyrics that stir the heart and send shivers through the soul.
If the offensive fails, defend the city. If defending the city proves futile, fight in the streets. If street fighting is hopeless, resort to close‑quarters combat. And if even close‑quarters combat cannot turn the tide, then take your own life. Never has a surrendered general known the day of his knees being bent, nor a fleeing soldier the moment he can look back.
All that lies behind is but an illusion; who, then, stands before me?
I once beheld the jade halls of Jinling, where orioles sang at dawn, and the pavilions along the Qinhuai, where flowers bloomed in early spring. Who would have guessed that such splendor could so easily melt away? I watched as grand towers rose, as banquets thronged with guests, and then, in the end, as those very towers came crashing down.
This moss and verdant tiles pile up—once I slept in a dream of worldly delights, sated by fifty years of such fleeting pleasure. That once‑Uyi Lane no longer bears the Wang name; at Mo‑chou Lake, ghosts wail through the night, and on Phoenix Terrace owls make their nest. The remnants of mountains hold the truest dreams, while old scenes are hard to shake off. If you doubt it, let this map be but a draft—let me weave a mournful ballad of sorrow for Jiangnan, and sing my lament till old age.
In the spring breeze on Shangsi Day, peach petals fall as light as scissors’ cuts—drifting like cotton fluff turned to snow, while fallen blossoms settle like sleet.
Love arises without knowing whence, yet it grows deep and unyielding; the living may die, and the dead may live.
By chance, my heart is entwined by the plum tree. Such flowers and grasses are left to be loved by mortals, their lives and deaths at the whim of man. Yet no one mourns their bittersweet fate. When, at last, their fragrant souls are gathered into one, they shall dwell beneath the misty, plum‑laden skies.
How can one know spring’s beauty so rich without stepping into the garden? All those vibrant blossoms, purple and red, have bloomed in profusion—yet here they are, consigned to broken wells and crumbling walls. What of this fine day and lovely scene? Who, pray tell, holds such joyous moments within their own courtyard? At dawn they flutter, at dusk they drift; clouds and rosy hues grace the emerald pavilion; rain threads and breezy gusts paint the misty waters where painted boats glide. How lightly does the lady behind the brocade screen regard this fleeting splendor!
Then, for you—like a blossoming beauty, like fleeting years—is the answer: I’ve wandered far and wide, yet in my secluded boudoir, I only pity myself.
Though I am now alone and unharmed, I wonder what joys life may hold. All that remains are tears streaming in countless streams and sorrows taking a thousand forms—whether in this world or the next, how can this grief ever be repaid?
May this life end in gentle peace, with the white clouds unenvied by the immortal realms; I only wish for a love as full of grace and joy, enduring through eternity.
Immortals are, by nature, beings of deep affection; though the Penglai Mountains lie far away, their hearts still reach across. The roots of love, forged through countless lifetimes, know no birth or death—until the very end, they remain united. Amid the tangled threads of worldly ties, even in the heavens of Trāyastriṃśa, celestial love endures forever. How unlike the fleeting dreams of the mortal realm, where joy and sorrow, laughter and turmoil, and all bonds of grace and affection, ultimately dissolve into emptiness.
A century of parting passes in the blink of an eye; a generation’s beauty all surrenders for you.
May this life end in gentle peace, with the white clouds unenvied by the immortal realms; I only wish for a love as full of grace and joy, enduring through eternity.
Immortals are, by nature, beings of deep affection; though the Penglai Mountains lie far away, their hearts still reach across. The roots of love, forged through countless lifetimes, know no birth or death—until the very end, they remain united. Amid the tangled threads of worldly ties, even in the heavens of Trāyastriṃśa, celestial love endures forever. How unlike the fleeting dreams of the mortal realm, where joy and sorrow, laughter and turmoil, and all bonds of grace and affection, ultimately dissolve into emptiness.
A century of parting passes in the blink of an eye; a generation’s beauty all surrenders for you.
I once hoped to be ennobled as a marquis, like Ban Chao who marched ten thousand li; yet I was forced to join the Red Turbans, rebels against the empire, and ended up betraying my lord, like Huang Chao.
I long to send my gaze a thousand miles aloft, yet sorrowful clouds hang low, shrouding the road to Hengyang.
No word from my love, no sign from the wild geese—how often have I been tempted to pen a lament for autumn!
Return The sun once again slants over the western hills; a lone traveler at the ends of the earth finds it truly hard to endure.
A husband doesn’t shed tears lightly—only because he hasn’t reached a truly heartbreaking moment.
I long to send my gaze a thousand miles aloft, yet sorrowful clouds hang low, shrouding the road to Hengyang.
No word from my love, no sign from the wild geese—how often have I been tempted to pen a lament for autumn!
Return The sun once again slants over the western hills; a lone traveler at the ends of the earth finds it truly hard to endure.
A husband doesn’t shed tears lightly—only because he hasn’t reached a truly heartbreaking moment.
Though my life is finite, the Dharma’s offering is boundless; yet the Bodhisattva’s compassion, though seemingly without emotion, is in fact imbued with profound feeling.
Among mortals, sovereigns and subjects, kin and kinfolk—what difference is there from ants and insects? All joys and sorrows, rises and falls, are but two sides of the same dream. What then is the realm of birth and heaven?
A smile at empty blossoms—no roots in the corner of the eye; dreams ensnare the soul. Long dreams last but a while, short ones leave no trace upon the tombstone. Throughout the world, those who dream of the South Tree are like ants.
Among mortals, sovereigns and subjects, kin and kinfolk—what difference is there from ants and insects? All joys and sorrows, rises and falls, are but two sides of the same dream. What then is the realm of birth and heaven?
A smile at empty blossoms—no roots in the corner of the eye; dreams ensnare the soul. Long dreams last but a while, short ones leave no trace upon the tombstone. Throughout the world, those who dream of the South Tree are like ants.
Longing lingers, short longing fades—what care I for the sorrow of parting? Clouds have hearts, waters have hearts—what idle grief or gloom remains? Once spring has come, and the blossoms have once again withered, how could it not leave its mark upon my brow?
The moon shines bright, the clouds are faint, and the dew is rich; leaning on my pillow, I sorrowfully listen to the crickets in all four walls. Grieving for autumn, Song Yu laments the west wind. Falling leaves startle me from my lingering dream, and I stroll idly through the fragrant dust, counting the scattered crimson petals.
The ethereal melody of the celestial hymn seems to carry Xue Feiqiong’s voice; at first hearing, one might mistake it for a breeze from another courtyard. Within that mournful, plaintive tone lies such poignant sorrow. Whose moonlit night does the zither weave its threefold strains, while I quietly count the threads of parting—yet the song has not yet reached its end?
Amid the riverlands, as the setting sun paints the wild ducks in solitary flight, and the misty clouds of the Xiao and Xiang rivers cast their shadows upon the ancient wu trees. In the lingering twilight, rain patters on lone reeds; under clear mountain mists, the market buzzes with voices; over misty waters, a scene of fishermen at work. All this is but a tranquil spectacle for the world’s heart to behold.
To the farthest reaches of the sky, a path lies open; yet the passing years stretch boundlessly, leaving the heart in awe. Three humble rooms beneath a white roof, a single straw mat in the world’s tumult—here, my troubled heart finds no repose.
No more do I long for fireworks or old friends, nor do I yearn for wealth and jade to clothe my body. After all, the immortal’s journey is a tranquil dream; let us set aside worldly concerns and human affairs—then, when you, mortal, awaken from your dreams, your heart will surely ponder.
I am but a fair maiden, not a man—why then do I wear a yellow sash and a straight‑cut robe?
He may strike me, berate me, slander me, and mock me—yet I remain utterly unwilling to attain Buddhahood, nor do I recite the name of Amitabha or aspire to the wisdom that leads beyond delusion.
I only hate the monks and laypeople who tell lies: where is the Buddha in the gardens and groves of the world? Where is the Buddha shining in every branch and leaf? Where is the Buddha dwelling in the shifting sands along the rivers and lakes? Where are the eighty-four million Amitābhas?
Yet why, though fated to meet, can we not share a life together as phoenix and crane?
——“A Thousand-Li Escort of the Young Lady to the Capital”
The clear, tender melody winds around the painted rafters; each note, each word, carries a thousand mellow strains. High mountains and flowing streams—how we delight in one another’s company! I long to ride upon the Qin phoenix, to soar together, yet still I fear that Mount Wu may be but a dreamland.
——“The Story of the West Tower”
As spring deepens, I leave my hometown, sighing at my waning years and weary frame, hurrying forth to the ends of the earth. With a single whip in hand, I gaze into the distance, where only remnants of water and fading sunset clouds remain. By the wall, tender willows sway; by the fence, blossoms bloom. I see an ancient tree, its withered vines bearing a flock of crows at dusk. Towering and rugged, along the long road, all that meets the eye is fields of mulberry and hemp.
——“The Story of the Hairpin and the Brocade”
Elms scatter green coins in disarray, plum blossoms cluster like plump emerald beans. A gentle breeze chases the swarm of butterflies; after the fine rain, dragonflies play. The warm sand is mellow, and mandarin ducks sleep. Fallen petals are trampled beneath horse’s hooves, while withered blooms brew honey for the bees.
——“The Wall-Top Horse”
As the old saying goes, “When you meet a kindred spirit over wine, even a thousand cups seem too few; when words fail to connect, half a sentence is already too much.”
——“The Story of the Lute”
I had entrusted my heart to the bright moon, yet who would have thought the moon would shine upon a ditch.
——“The Story of the Lute”
Azure clouds, golden chrysanthemums on the ground, the west wind howls, and wild geese fly south. Tell me, who has dyed the frost‑kissed woods crimson at dawn? It is but the tears of those who part, a thousand lines streaming down their cheeks.
——“The West Chamber”
It opposes the teaching that separates father from son, yet who knows when we shall meet again in joy? Such reunion is already rare in this life; how can we hope to be reunited in years to come? Waves toss us east and west, like duckweed adrift with no root.
I cannot help but shed tears in countless streams, envious of the paired wild geese returning south.
——“The Story of Washing Silk”
Reference source: Kunqu Opera Culture Submissions welcome: 363036353@qq.com
The clear, tender melody winds around the painted rafters; each note, each word, carries a thousand mellow strains. High mountains and flowing streams—how we delight in one another’s company! I long to ride upon the Qin phoenix, to soar together, yet still I fear that Mount Wu may be but a dreamland.
——“The Story of the West Tower”
As spring deepens, I leave my hometown, sighing at my waning years and weary frame, hurrying forth to the ends of the earth. With a single whip in hand, I gaze into the distance, where only remnants of water and fading sunset clouds remain. By the wall, tender willows sway; by the fence, blossoms bloom. I see an ancient tree, its withered vines bearing a flock of crows at dusk. Towering and rugged, along the long road, all that meets the eye is fields of mulberry and hemp.
——“The Story of the Hairpin and the Brocade”
Elms scatter green coins in disarray, plum blossoms cluster like plump emerald beans. A gentle breeze chases the swarm of butterflies; after the fine rain, dragonflies play. The warm sand is mellow, and mandarin ducks sleep. Fallen petals are trampled beneath horse’s hooves, while withered blooms brew honey for the bees.
——“The Wall-Top Horse”
As the old saying goes, “When you meet a kindred spirit over wine, even a thousand cups seem too few; when words fail to connect, half a sentence is already too much.”
——“The Story of the Lute”
I had entrusted my heart to the bright moon, yet who would have thought the moon would shine upon a ditch.
——“The Story of the Lute”
Azure clouds, golden chrysanthemums on the ground, the west wind howls, and wild geese fly south. Tell me, who has dyed the frost‑kissed woods crimson at dawn? It is but the tears of those who part, a thousand lines streaming down their cheeks.
——“The West Chamber”
It opposes the teaching that separates father from son, yet who knows when we shall meet again in joy? Such reunion is already rare in this life; how can we hope to be reunited in years to come? Waves toss us east and west, like duckweed adrift with no root.
I cannot help but shed tears in countless streams, envious of the paired wild geese returning south.
——“The Story of Washing Silk”
Reference source: Kunqu Opera Culture Submissions welcome: 363036353@qq.com
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