Ask me not what I am inside,
but for the mask that I wear,
thick make-up I share;
Ask me not for my inner thoughts,
but for the tapestry I weave,
the sighs that I heave.
Love me not for my hopes and my dreams,
but for the paintings I paint,
a scholar, a saint;

For I am sick of being a dumpling-
I want not for people to bite me before they
know of my meat,
For I am done with being a guzheng,
whose screeching sound emits when it is
not played, but picked,
For I am tired of a life where you
wind me like clockwork,
wrap me in chains,
bind my feet with red cloth and
burn me into ash.