锦瑟

It has fifty strings, why exactly, on this beautiful zither;
It plays back the golden past, one string after another.
My mind puzzled like Master Zhuang, who had the bewildering dream of butterfly;
My heart aching like Emperor Wang, who turned into a cuckoo with endless cry.
Pearls forming from mermaid tears, as the moon shines upon the blue sea;
Smoke emiting from buried jade, as the sun glows over the blue field.
Feelings, nothing more than feelings,
nothing but a distant memory,
perplexing, mixed-up, even back then.