Pipa Dance

My hand tingles, treading on fallen blossoms. The setting sun, a lone footstep. Who plucks the pipa, cold one moment, warm the next? The sound of the strings grows ever more heart-aching. Once vowed to return to the countryside home Boil the mulberry flowers until only eight or nine remain. In the flower banana pond, paper is written and dyed with the evening glow. Listen to a pipa melody from a tall building. Nine-string Cloud Elegance Smoke Treading That year, the wind blew down the entire tree of pear blossoms. Play a piece on the pipa from a tall building. A person, separated from loved ones, loses heart and becomes foolish, drifting far away to the ends of the earth. Sweat and thousand mountains are but sand beneath his fingertips. Listen to a pipa melody from a tall building. Nine strings, cloud elegance, human traces tread That year, the wind blew down the entire tree of pear blossoms. Pluck a tune on a lute from a tall building A person, separated from loved ones, loses will and becomes foolish, wandering far away in the world. Sweat and thousand mountains are but sand beneath his fingertips.