#i mainly posted this bc on twitter there's only one translated by chatgpt

[dsknsk]

葬花吟 and its various translations

So. The name of the season, 葬花吟 (zàng huā yín, which can be translated as "Flower Burial Lament") is the name for a very famous passage from the original 紅樓夢. I've been going crazy over it for so long that I eventually ended up borrowing 紅樓夢 translated into my native language.

For context, 葬花吟 is a lament uttered by the character Lin Daiyu, who has relegated herself to burying blossom petals that have fallen off and then breaks out in poetry. This bit of poetry shows us a deeper look into Daiyu's inner state of mind, all wrapped up in some very nice traditional Chinese style of poetry. (Honestly, that's just about everywhere in the book). Daiyu is an extremely interesting, complex character, whose presence in the book forms an important role in the changes that take place. She is not just Baoyu's love interest; she's also the person of whose arrival to the Jia family and everything thereafter is followed. Having been sickly since her youth, she does things no one else does, like mourning the transcience of life and burying fallen blossoms, being acquainted with the frailty of existence. Even so, she does openly complain several times - not unlike Kurokumo Hong Lu - for example, her not being able to show off her poetry skills in public like the others can, or not being able to choose the flowers she gets, due to being given them last.

紅樓夢 has been translated several times - the David Hawkes translation is the most known. However, I will present here three variations, spearheaded by the original. I will not connect any sort of conclusions or analysis based on the translations, because certain people will not like that :)

Original

花谢花飞花满天，红消香断有谁怜？ 游丝软系飘春榭，落絮轻沾扑绣帘。 闺中女儿惜春暮，愁绪满怀无释处。 手把花锄出绣帘，忍踏落花来复去。 柳丝榆荚自芳菲，不管桃飘与李飞； 桃李明年能再发，明年闺中知有谁？ 三月香巢已垒成，梁间燕子太无情！ 明年花发虽可啄，却不道人去梁空巢也倾。 一年三百六十日，风刀霜剑严相逼； 明媚鲜妍能几时，一朝漂泊难寻觅。 花开易见落难寻，阶前愁杀葬花人， 独倚花锄泪暗洒，洒上空枝见血痕。 杜鹃无语正黄昏，荷锄归去掩重门； 青灯照壁人初睡，冷雨敲窗被未温。 怪奴底事倍伤神？半为怜春半恼春。 怜春忽至恼忽去，至又无言去未闻。 昨宵庭外悲歌发，知是花魂与鸟魂？ 花魂鸟魂总难留，鸟自无言花自羞； 愿侬此日生双翼，随花飞到天尽头。 天尽头，何处有香丘？ 未若锦囊收艳骨，一抔净土掩风流。 质本洁来还洁去，强于污淖陷渠沟。 尔今死去侬收葬，未卜侬身何日丧？ 侬今葬花人笑痴，他年葬侬知是谁？ 试看春残花渐落，便是红颜老死时； 一朝春尽红颜老，花落人亡两不知！

The original text above has been translated a few times, and the earliest one I've been able to find is one from 1763, by H. Bencraft Joly and Florence McHugh. This one has rhyme and it uses a bit archaic language - think of "what if Don Quixote translated this?".

1763 translation (H. Bencraft Joly & Florence McHugh)

Flowers wither and decay; and flowers do fleet; they fly all o'er the skies; Their bloom wanes; their smell dies; but who is there with them to sympathise? While vagrant gossamer soft doth on fluttering spring-bowers bind its coils, And drooping catkins lightly strike and cling on the embroidered screens,

A maiden in the inner rooms, I sore deplore the close of spring. Such ceaseless sorrow fills my breast, that solace nowhere can I find. Past the embroidered screen I issue forth, taking with me a hoe, And on the faded flowers to tread I needs must, as I come and go.

The willow fibres and elm seeds have each a fragrance of their own. What care I, peach blossoms may fall, pear flowers away be blown; Yet peach and pear will, when next year returns, burst out again in bloom, But can it e'er be told who will next year dwell in the inner room?

What time the third moon comes, the scented nests have been already built. And on the beams the swallows perch, excessive spiritless and staid; Next year, when the flowers bud, they may, it's true, have ample to feed on: But they know not that when I'm gone beams will be vacant and nests fall!

In a whole year, which doth consist of three hundred and sixty days, Winds sharp as swords and frost like unto spears each other rigorous press, So that how long can last their beauty bright; their fresh charm how long stays? Sudden they droop and fly; and whither they have flown, 'tis hard to guess.

Flowers, while in bloom, easy the eye attract; but, when they wither, hard they are to find. Now by the footsteps, I bury the flowers, but sorrow will slay me. Alone I stand, and as I clutch the hoe, silent tears trickle down, And drip on the bare twigs, leaving behind them the traces of blood.

The goatsucker hath sung his song, the shades lower of eventide, So with the lotus hoe I return home and shut the double doors. Upon the wall the green lamp sheds its rays just as I go to sleep. The cover is yet cold; against the window patters the bleak rain.

How strange! Why can it ever be that I feel so wounded at heart! Partly, because spring I regret; partly, because with spring I'm vexed! Regret for spring, because it sudden comes; vexed, for it sudden goes. For without warning, lo! it comes; and without asking it doth fleet.

Yesterday night, outside the hall sorrowful songs burst from my mouth, For I found out that flowers decay, and that birds also pass away. The soul of flowers, and the spirit of birds are both hard to restrain. Birds, to themselves when left, in silence plunge; and flowers, alone, they blush.

Oh! would that on my sides a pair of wings could grow, That to the end of heaven I may fly in the wake of flowers! Yea to the very end of heaven, Where I could find a fragrant grave!

For better, is it not, that an embroidered bag should hold my well-shaped bones, And that a heap of stainless earth should in its folds my winsome charms enshroud. For spotless once my frame did come, and spotless again it will go! Far better than that I, like filthy mire, should sink into some drain!

Ye flowers are now faded and gone, and, lo, I come to bury you. But as for me, what day I shall see death is not as yet divined! Here I am fain these flowers to inter; but humankind will laugh me as a fool. who knows, who will, in years to come, commit me to my grave!

Mark, and you'll find the close of spring, and the gradual decay of flowers, Resemble faithfully the time of death of maidens ripe in years! In a twinkle, spring time draws to a close, and maidens wax in age. Flowers fade and maidens die; and of either nought any more is known.

For the version in David Hughes' translation, arguably the most well-known translation of the book, I had to scour the net. For some reason, my translation ends its first book at chapter 30, but the David Hughes one does at chapter 25 - right before the poem in chapter 27. This one lacks one line because the previous one was erroneously repeated in the place I found it. It also rhymes but is a bit less archaic.

David Hawkes translation

The blossoms fade and falling fill the air, Of fragrance and bright hues bereft and bare. Floss drifts and flutters round the Maiden's bower, Or softly strikes against her curtained door.

The Maid, grieved by these signs of spring's decease, Seeking some means her sorrow to express, Has rake in hand into the garden gone, Before the fallen flowers are trampled on.

Elm-pods and willow-floss are fragrant too; Why care, Maid, where the fallen flowers blew? Next year, when peach and plum-tree bloom again, Which of your sweet companions will remain?

This spring the heartless swallow built his nest Beneath the eaves of mud with flowers compressed. Next year the flowers will blossom as before, But swallow, nest, and Maid will be no more.

Three hundred and three-score the year's full tale: From swords of frost and from the slaughtering gale How can the lovely flowers long stay intact, Or, once loosed, from their drifting fate draw back?

Blooming so stead fast, fallen so hard to find! Beside the flowers' grave, with sorrowing mind, The solitary Maid sheds many a tear, Which on the boughs as bloody drops appear.

At twilight, when the cuckoo sings no more, The Maiden with her rake goes in at door And lays her down between the lamplit walls, While a chill rain against the window falls.

I know not why my heart's so strangely sad, Half grieving for the spring and yet half glad: Glad that it came, grieved it so soon was spent. So soft it came, so silently it went!

Last night, outside, a mournful sound was heard: The spirits of the flowers and of the bird. But neither bird nor flowers would long delay,  Bird lacking speech, and flowers too shy to stay.

And then I wished that I had wings to fly Across the sky to the world’s farthest end, [Unfortunately, I have not been able to find this line in this specific translation.] The flowers' last fragrant resting-place to find.

But better their remains in silk to lay And bury underneath the wholesome clay, Pure substances the pure earth to enrich, Than leave to soak and stink in some foul ditch.

Can I, that these flowers’ obsequies attend, Divine how soon or late my life will end? Let others laugh flower-burial to see: Another year who will be burying me?

As petals drop and spring begins to fail, The bloom of youth, too, sickens and turns pale. One day, when spring has gone and youth has fled. The Maiden and the flowers will both be dead.

If you've made it to this point, I think I feel comfortable sharing my own translation. I have tried staying true to the original while also incorporating two new rhyming syllable each stanza.

My (cringy) translation

The beautiful blossoms, fallen on the green, their fragrance, nevermore to be sensed or seen The Spring Pavilion, smothered in cobwebs and rust, its curtains, covered in floss like faded gold dust

Inside, a maiden laments, for the spring has come to its end To what manner of solace shall she descend? With a rake in her hand, she treads into the backyard, But she dares not trample upon the flowers, by her own hesitation barred

How far the aroma of willows and elm trees may carry, or where the wind took the fallen flowers for me to bury The peach and plum bloom next year just like before, so why even ask? For who will remain in these inner rooms, and who will come to pass?

As early as March, the swallow prepares her nest, leaving the trees of their blossoms bereft Still, they will welcome them next year just the same, yet there won’t be any nest, swallow or maiden for anyone to name

Three hundred and sixty days is the length of a moon's year, the gale will cut and the frost will tear, breaking everything that’s dear How long will the flowers last before they inevitably come to fall? That answer is up to fate - one day they shall leave, so ephemeral

Blooming so graciously, yet once fallen, so hard to find, Clouded by those sorrows when standing at the flowers’ grave is her mind With nothing left to do but leaning on the rake, a tear runs down her face Leaving behind drips of blood on the branches, as despair's only trace

Sunset is here and the cuckoo's song is heard no more So she returns with the rake, her hand shutting the door Long after falling in dream's embrace, her lamp remains lit, her bed devoid of any warmth, as outside, the merciless rain hits

With blame and unfamiliar feelings, my inner self tears itself apart, Broken between sadness and joy is my heart Feeling glad when spring arrives, yet frustrated at how fast it leaves, Rejoicing as it’s suddenly here, yet when it goes, I grieve

A mournful song was heard last night, Perhaps it escaped from the flowers' and birds' souls in fright? Yet, neither of their spirits stay here for someone to keep, For the flowers are shy and the birds do not speak, nor do they ever weep

Oh, my sole wish to the heavens is a pair of wings, To the furthest ends of the worlds, the flowers I would bring Maybe, in the distance somewhere, is there a fragrant grave for the blossoms once so fair?

All these colored bones in this satchet, gathered in a mishmash [1] Under the earth, they will disappear, not even leaving ash As pure as they grew, as pure they will go of things like filthy water never to know

To these blooms, I have come to bury you For me, the day I will die is a mystery, but its existence rings true At least I may return the flowers to the soil, even though they shall call me a laughing fool And when the year comes for me to pass, is there anyone who will bury me without being cruel?

Behold, as spring leaves us behind and its flowers decay And the red bloom of youth shall also be gone one day That morning you will see that spring has come to a close - Not just the flowers but the maiden also, it will be over and done with those!

[1] The original makes her compare the petals in a satchet to how Buddhism views the body as a set of bones in a sack.