郭雨昂 #辞.九门回忆 Farewell #Live Broadcast Every Thursday #20250306 #CHINESE FOLK-INSPIRED SONG

辞·九门回忆 【演唱: 郭雨昂】 一曲定重楼 一眼半生筹 看的全都是那诡谲云涌 入得此门不回首 无需宣之于口 我对案再拜那风雨瓢泼的残陋 再聚首 戏子多秋 可怜一处情深旧 满座衣冠皆老朽 黄泉故事无止休 戏无骨难左右 换过一折又重头 只道最是人间不能留 戏：误闯天家 劝余放下手中砂 张口欲唱声却哑 粉面披衣叫个假 怜余来安座下 不敢沾染佛前茶 只作凡人赴雪月风花 绕过胭脂楼 打散结发扣 唱的全都是那情深不寿 入得此门不回首 无需宣之于口 我对镜遮掩那风雨瓢泼的残陋 碑已旧 戏子多秋 可怜一处情深旧 满座衣冠皆老朽 黄泉故事无止休 戏无骨难左右 换过一折又重头 只道最是人间不能留 误闯天家 劝余放下手中砂 送那人御街打马 才子佳人断佳话 怜余来苦咽下 求不得佛前茶 只留三寸土种二月花 Farewell · Memories of the Nine Gates [Performed by: Guo Yu'ang] A song decides the towering stage, A glance wagers half a lifetime. What I see is the swirling storm, Once through this gate, there’s no turning back, No need to utter a single word. I bow once more before the remnants of wind and rain. Once we reunite, Actors face countless autumns, Yet a deep love remains in this old place. The adorned crowd has aged into dust, Yet stories in the underworld never cease. A play without essence drifts without control, Scene after scene starts anew, For what cannot remain in this mortal world. Play: A Misstep into the Palace They urge me to let go of the sand in my hand. I open my mouth to sing, but my voice falters, Powdered face and draped robes—just a fleeting illusion. They pity me and offer a seat, Yet I dare not sip the tea before the Buddha, For I am but a mortal chasing fleeting dreams. Passing by the Rouge Pavilion, Undoing locks of hair once bound, What I sing is nothing but the sorrow of love’s fleeting fate. Once through this gate, there’s no turning back, No need to utter a single word. Before the mirror, I hide the scars of wind and rain. The monument has aged, Actors face countless autumns, Yet a deep love remains in this old place. The adorned crowd has aged into dust, Yet stories in the underworld never cease. A play without essence drifts without control, Scene after scene starts anew, For what cannot remain in this mortal world. A misstep into the palace, They urge me to let go of the sand in my hand. Sending that person off—riding through the imperial street. The scholar and the beauty, their tale now severed. They pity me, yet I swallow the bitterness, Yearning but unable to taste the Buddha’s tea, Leaving behind only three inches of soil to grow the flowers of February.