Chapter 14 lapis lazuli carving

lapis lazuli carving —to Harry Clifton I hear hysterical women claim, They are tired of palettes and fiddle bows, Tired of the ever-happy poet; Because everyone understands, or at least should understand, If drastic action is not taken, Spaceships and planes will appear in the sky, Throw bombs like King Billy, In the end, the town was flattened and left in ruins. All play their tragedies, Hamlet and Lear, swagger, This is Ophelia, that's Cordelia; They, if they were still there at the end of the scene— That gigantic curtain is about to descend— To be worthy of the glorious role in the play,

Just don't break their lines and cry bitterly. They understand the joy of Hamlet and Lear; Joy changes the shape of all fears. Everyone yearns for, gets, and loses; The lights go out, and heaven flashes in the mind: Tragedy reaches its climax. Though Hamlet lingers and Lear rages, On thousands of stages, The last scene is all over at once, Can't gain an inch and add half a pound. They come on foot, or in boats, on camel, horse, donkey or mule, The ancient civilization has been destroyed. They and their wisdom are no more: No handicrafts of Karimachus, He played with marble as if it were bronze;

The curtain he made, with the sea wind blowing through the corner It seems to stand up, so lifelike; His long lampshade is like a palm, The thin handle just stood for a day. Everything falls and rebuilds, Those who rebuild are filled with joy. Carved on lapis lazuli is the Two Chinese, with a third behind them, Over their heads flew a long-legged bird, a symbol of immortality; The third, doubtless a squire, Holding a musical instrument in his hand. Every blemish on lapis lazuli, Every unintentional crack or mark, Like a waterfall or an avalanche, Or the slopes that are still covered with snow.

Although the branches of cherry trees and plum trees to make those Chinese climb towards The house on the hillside is so lovely, and I' Like to imagine them sitting there, There they gaze upon the mountains, The sky, and all the tragic sights. One wants to listen to mournful music, Skillful fingers begin to play, their wrinkled eyes, their eyes, Their old, twinkling eyes, were full of joy. (Translated by Qiu Xiaolong)