余禁所禁垣西，是法廳事也。有古槐數株焉，雖生意可知，同殷仲文之古樹，而聽訟斯在，即周召伯 之甘棠。每至夕照低陰，秋蟬疏引，發聲幽息，有切嘗聞；豈人心異於曩時，將蟲響悲於前聽？嗟乎 ！聲以動容，德以象賢，故潔其身也，稟君子達人之高行；蛻其皮也，有仙都羽化之靈姿。候時而來 ，順陰陽之數；應節為變，審藏用之機。有目斯開 ，不以道昏而昧其視；有翼自薄，不以俗厚而易其真。吟喬樹之微風，韻資天縱；飲高秋之墜露，清 畏人知。僕失路艱虞，遭時徽纆，不哀傷而自怨，未搖落而先衰。聞蟪蛄之流聲，悟平反之已奏；見螳螂之抱影，怯危機之未安。感而綴詩，貽諸知己 。庶情沿物應，哀弱羽之飄零；道寄人知，憫餘聲之寂寞。非謂文墨，取代幽憂云爾。
West of where I'm imprisoned over the prison wall is the grounds of the Court of Law. There are a few ancient pagoda trees, alive yet barely so, much like what Yin Zhongwen of Jin had seen in his time, yet they listen to all that goes on, much like Zhao Bo of Zhou did with litigations in his town. Every evening in the declining sun, from the low hanging foliage comes intermittent singing of cicadas, rather weak is the sound, yet emotionally evocative; or is it because my circumstances are so different than the previous, that I perceive them to be dismal now but not before? Alas! One's voice can alter the impression one gives, one's kindness reflects one's virtue, therefore each cicada keeps to itself, much like the disciplined and the accomplished in their conduct; as a cicada sheds its skin, it transfigures and seems to in beautiful posture soar. Born for a season, its being is in accordance with the laws and forces of nature; abiding by climate-driven metamorphosis, it duly goes through the cycle of life in good time. Once its eyes have opened, it doesn't refuse to see even if the way of the world has gone off its course; its wings are inherently thin, yet it doesn't look to change its nature to resemble those better provided. On tall trees it perches and sings in the wind, resonating the rhythm of heavenly order. Feeding on dew of high autumn, it fears of being noticed for being aloof. I've become too far gone down this road of the down and out, now I'm in the lock-up as current affairs takes a turn, although sorry I am not, I do blame myself, although old I am yet not, weak and frail I have become. As I listen to the broken sound of cicadas in the cold, I know any appeal seeking to right my injustice must have been presented by now; it's like seeing the shadow of a preying mantis behind a cicada, I fear my crisis has not yet passed. Driven by sentiments I take to a poem write, for those who know me well. I hope it captures how I feel based on what I see, and mourn for those with weak wings that are about to fall adrift; in expressing what I feel, I hope there is sympathy for what remains of my loneliness. I write not for amusement, but as an attempt to attend to something other than bottomless desolation.
中文原文﹕
西陸蟬聲唱，
南冠客思侵。
那堪玄鬢影，
來對白頭吟。
露重飛難進，
風多響易沉。
無人信高潔，
誰為表予心。
英文翻譯 / English Translation﹕
West of here, cicadas sing their songs,
Besieging this imprisoned southerner with homesickness.
I cannot help but lament as autumn cicadas flap their wings as ebony as youthful hair,
And in the face of a greying man they flit and sing.
As autumn dew weighs on wings so thin,
Their symphonies tend to plunge in crosswinds.
No one believes them to be a virtuous kind,
Who is there to my innocence appreciate and vindicate?
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