In the tenth year of the Yuanhe era, I was demoted to the position of Sima in Jiujiang. The following autumn, while seeing off guests at the Penpu dock, I heard the sound of a pipa being played on a boat at night. Listening to its music, it resonated with the sounds of the capital. I inquired about the player, and learned she was originally a singer from Chang'an, who had once learned the pipa from the talented Mu and Cao. Now older and faded in beauty, she had become the wife of a merchant. I then ordered wine, asking her to play a few tunes. After the music ended, she sorrowfully recounted her joyful youth, now adrift and worn, wandering between rivers and lakes. After two years of being out of office, I felt at peace, but was moved by her words, and that evening began to feel a sense of exile. Thus, I composed a long poem to gift her, totaling six hundred and sixteen words, titled "Pipa Song."
At the head of the Xunyang River, I bid farewell to guests at night, as maple leaves and reeds rustle in the autumn breeze. The host dismounts while the guests are on the boat, raising their wine cups but lacking music and instruments. Drunk and unable to enjoy the moment, the parting is sorrowful, as the moon reflects dimly on the vast river.
Suddenly, I hear the sound of a pipa on the water, the host forgets to return, and the guests remain silent. I quietly inquire about the player, but the pipa stops, and she hesitates to speak. I move the boat closer to invite her to meet, adding wine and rekindling the feast. After calling her a thousand times, she finally appears, still holding the pipa half-covering her face. With a few plucks of the strings, the melody begins, but before the tune is formed, emotions arise. Each string's sound seems to express unfulfilled aspirations. With lowered brows, she plays continuously, revealing countless feelings from her heart. Gently she gathers and plucks, first playing "Rainbow Skirt," then "Six Yao." The deep bass strings sound like a sudden rain, while the higher strings whisper like private conversations. The chaotic and intricate sounds intertwine, like large and small pearls falling on a jade plate. The warbling of orioles beneath the flowers is slippery, while the soft flow of springs under the ice is difficult to hear. The icy spring is cold and harsh, the strings are frozen and silent, and the silence speaks louder than sound.
When a silver bottle suddenly breaks, water splashes everywhere, and iron horses charge forth with the clanging of swords. As the music ends, the final pluck is like tearing silk. The east and west boats are silent, only the autumn moon shines white over the river.
Lost in thought, I pause the strings, adjusting my clothes and composing myself. I say that I am originally from the capital, living under the Xiaoma Ridge. I learned to play the pipa at thirteen, and my name belongs to the first troupe of the teaching guild. After the music ended, I once taught talented musicians, and when I was made up, I was often envied by autumn ladies. Young men of Wuling vied for my attention, and I lost count of how many times I played "Red Silk." The silver comb struck the beat, shattering, and my blood-red skirt was stained with wine. This year’s laughter will return next year, as the autumn moon and spring breeze pass by casually. My brother went to serve in the army, and my aunt has passed away; day turns to night, and my complexion remains unchanged. The front door is cold and deserted, with few horses and saddles; the eldest has married into a merchant family. Merchants value profit and care little for parting; last month, they went to buy tea at Fuliang. Coming and going at the river mouth, guarding an empty boat, the moonlight shines coldly on the river.
Late at night, I suddenly dream of my youth, dreaming of crying with makeup, tears staining the red railing.
I heard the pipa and sighed, and then heard her words, heavy with emotion. We are both people fallen to the ends of the earth; why must we have met before? I left the imperial capital last year, exiled and bedridden in Xunyang City. Xunyang is remote and lacks music; throughout the year, I have not heard the sounds of silk and bamboo. Living near the Pen River, the land is low and damp, with yellow reeds and bitter bamboo surrounding my home. What do I hear at dawn and dusk? The cuckoo cries blood, and the apes lament. Spring rivers, flower mornings, and autumn moon nights often lead me to drink alone. Are there no mountain songs or village flutes? The hoarse and discordant sounds are hard to listen to. Tonight, hearing your pipa, it feels like celestial music, and my ears momentarily brighten.
Do not refuse to sit and play another tune; for you, I will compose "Pipa Song."
Moved by my words, she stood for a long time, then sat down and plucked the strings more urgently. The melancholy sounds were unlike those before, and the entire audience heard and wept. Who among them wept the most? It was the Sima of Jiangzhou, his blue shirt soaked.