Through flocks of mountains, myriad valleys, I arrive in Jingmen,where Ming-fei was born and bred--* the village is still there.
Once she left the crimson terraces, there was nothing but endless desert;only her evergreen grave is left to face the twilight.
Portraits have recorded her spring-fresh face;the tinkle of girdle pendants heralds her soul's vain return by moonlight.
For a thousand years the pipa has wailed in its alien tongue,as if its strings bemoan in song her tragic tale of grief.
