There is a rare bird in the forest,
Who calls himself a phoenix.
In the clear morning he drinks from a sweet spring,
At the eve of day he nests on the mountain's crest.
When he sings his high song
his voice reaches to the ends of the empire;
And when he stretches his neck
he can look off to the ends of the earth.
But when he meets the autumn wind rising,
His very wings (seem to show) his inner sorrow.
Once he has gone off west of the Kunlun,
When will he come soaring back again?
That he must stay where he does not belong!
The utter sadness of it wrings my heart!
The (liberal) Left,
7 hours ago