Paper Flowers, Burning Letters ｜A Night Ride, a Song, and Listening Across Languages 美秀集團〈紙花〉歌詞翻譯

This piece is a listening and translation note. It moves between personal memory, Taiwanese lyrics, and cultural references—not to explain everything, but to stay with how music carries meaning across languages.

In mid-October, I went on a late-night bike ride. As we rode through the city, songs by Amazing Show (美秀集團) played through our speakers, filling the streets with a kind of shared momentum that only happens at night.

This group of friends had first encountered Amazing Show earlier at a music festival in Tainan. What struck them most wasn’t just the sound, but the crowd—how nearly everyone could sing along to every lyric.

After that night, I found myself returning to Amazing Show as well. It was during this return that I came across their new song, Paper Flowers —《紙花》(Tsuá-hue). At first glance, the Mandarin title felt almost gentle, even poetic. But almost immediately, something in me hesitated. The English title, Burning Letters, confirmed that unease—an instinctive “uh-oh” that suggested this song would not be an easy listen.

Below are the lyrics, sung in Taiwanese, presented in Traditional Chinese characters, romanisation, and an English interpretation.

《紙花》Tsuá-hue

作詞：冠佑 Lyrics: Luis Khu

作曲：冠佑 Compose: Luis Khu

編曲：美秀集團 Arrangement: Amazing Show

Locked inside the room,

Lighting a candle, pretending to be at ease.

The rain won’t stop;

my longing burns, one flame after another.

關佇房間 Kuainn tī pâng-kiann,

點一支蠟燭假做鬆勢 tiám tsit-ki lah-tsiok ké-tsò sang-sè.

雨落袂停 Hōo loh bē thîng,

害我給思念燒掉一支擱一支 hāi guá kā su-liām sio-tiāu tsit-ki koh tsit-ki.

The frost wind roams through the night,

passes by — but never quite.

You are like a carving, etched inside my heart.

The photo on the wall reflects no light.

Flame flickers—

and suddenly, it dies.

Was that you?

霜風吹規暝 Sng hong tshue kui mî,

吹過去 吹袂走 tshue kuè-khì, tshue bē-tsáu.

你親像佇我心內刻字 lí tshin-tshiūnn tī guá sim-lāi khik-jī

壁頂袂反光的相片 Piah-tíng buē huán-kng ê siòng-phìnn,

火光一爍一爍 hué-kng tsit-sih tsit-sih,

雄雄化去 hiông-hiông huà--khì

敢是你 kám-sī lí?

Take the letter I never could finish,

fold it into flowers no one will receive.

From the edge of the rooftop they fall, petal by petal,

like shooting stars.

Help me release the memories that once were ours.

提我無寫了的批 Theh guá bô siá liáu ê phue,

拗做無人收的花 áu tsò bô-lâng siu ê hue.

厝尾頂一蕊一蕊抨落 Tshù-bué-tíng tsit-luí tsit-luí phiann-lueh,

當作流星 tòng-tsò liû-tshenn.

予我放袂記咱 鬥陣過 Hōo guá pàng-buē-kì lán tàu-tīn-kuè.

Words that never crossed my lips —

my longing sinks and threads through the sea.

I thought time would wash it all away,

and tuck it back in place to stay.

Yet you come in dreams, hands cupping paper flowers.

I am reluctant to wake.

袂赴講出嘴的話 Buē-hù kóng-tshut-tshuì ê uē,

思念是沉海的祓鍊 su-liām sī tîm-hái ê phuah-liān.

掠準時間會𤆬走一切 Liah-tsún sî-kan ē tshuā-tsáu it-tshè,

收收好勢 siu-siu hó-sè.

你煞來夢中手捧紙花 Lí suah lâi bāng-tiong tshiú phâng tsuá-hue,

我毋甘清醒 guá m̄-kam tshing-tshénn.

ocked inside the room,

Phone in hand, pacing, again and again.

Our last words,

rest at last November’s end.

The rain won’t stop.

This sky carries more than I.

Eyes grow misty —

smoke that refuses to die.

關佇房間 Kuainn tī pâng-kiann,

舉手機仔踅矣踅 giah tshiú-ki-á seh--ah-seh.

和你的對話 Hām lí ê tuì-uē,

留佇舊年十一月底 lâu tī kū-nî tsap-it-gue̍h-té.

雨落袂停 Hōo loh buē thîng,

這片天比我惜情 tsit phìnn thinn pí guá sioh-tsîng.

目睭霧 Bak-tsiu bū,

是燒袂煞的煙 sī sio buē-suah ê ian.

Take the letter I never could finish, (Take the letter I never could finish,)

fold it into flowers no one will receive. (fold it into flowers no one will receive.)

From the edge of the rooftop they fall, petal by petal, (petal by petal)

like shooting stars. (like shooting stars.)

Help me release the memories that once were ours. (once were ours)

提我無寫了的批 Theh guá bô siá liáu ê phue, (提我無寫了的批 Theh guá bô siá liáu ê phue,)

拗做無人收的花 áu tsò bô-lâng siu ê hue. (拗做無人收的花 áu tsò bô-lâng siu ê hue.)

厝尾頂一蕊一蕊抨落 Tshù-bué-tíng tsit-luí tsi̍t-luí phiann-lueh, (一蕊一蕊 tsit-luí tsit-luí)

當作流星 tòng-tsò liû-tshenn. (當作流星 tòng-tsò liû-tshenn)

予我放袂記咱 鬥陣過 (鬥陣過) Hōo guá pàng buē-kì lán tàu-tīn-kuè.

Words that never made it past my lips —

my longing sinks and threads through the sea.

Thought time would wash it all away,

and tuck it back in place to stay.

Yet you come in my dream, hands cupping paper flowers.

I am reluctant to wake.

袂赴講出嘴的話 Buē-hù kóng-tshut-tshuì ê uē,

思念是沉海的祓鍊 su-liām sī tîm-hái ê phuh-liān.

掠準時間會𤆬走一切 Liah-tsún sî-kan ē tshuā-tsáu it-tshè,

收收好勢 siu-siu hó-sè.

你煞來夢中手捧紙花 Lí suah lâi bāng-tiong tshiú phâng tsuá-hue,

我毋甘清醒 guá m̄-kam tshing-tshénn.

Step out of the room,

never will I grow used to a sight without you.

(Quietly, I make a wish.)

The moonlight keeps me company — soft, waning

I have never seen that dawn again.

走出房間 Tsáu-tshut pâng-king,

永遠袂慣習 無你的風景 íng-guán bē kuàn-sì bô lí ê hong-kíng.

(偷偷下願) (Thau-thau hē guān)

月色陪我稀微 Gueh-sik puê guá hi-bî,

毋捌看見 天光彼一日 m̄ bat khuànn-kìnn thinn-kng hit-tsit-jit.

Perhaps fate carved my sorrow deep — completely, endlessly.

Across the clouds, paper flowers fly, catching fire silently.

I beg this world to bend, just once, before it ends;

let me see you once again,

before the sunrise.

凡勢是我數念傷徹底 Huân-sè sī guá siàu-liām siunn thiat-té.

雲頂飛來著火的紙花 Hûn-tíng pue lâi tioh-hué ê tsuá-hue.

拜託世界成全一改 Pài-thok sè-kài sîng-tsuân tsit kái,

擱再見你一面 koh-tsài kìnn lí tsit-bīn,

佇日出以前 tī jit-tshut í-tsîng.

The lyricist, Luis Khu (冠佑), has shared that the song was inspired by the musical Reed Unbroken (《釧兒》), itself rooted in the folk tale of Xue Ping-Gui (薛平貴) and Wang Bao-Chuan(王寶釧). The story tells of a warrior, Xue Ping-Gui, who leaves home for battle, while his wife Wang Bao-Chuan waits for eighteen years in a cold cave. Though Xue returns victorious—having gained status, power, and even a royal marriage—he ultimately chooses to come back “on a white horse.”

It is a story of distance, faith, and endurance, deeply embedded in Taiwanese opera, most famously through the piece Riding a White Horse (《身騎白馬》). Like Penelope waiting for Odysseus, Wang Bao-Chuan’s faith binds the story across time and cultures. (But honestly, who would abandon his wife for 18 years and suddenly decide he remembers her?)

So where do paper flowers come in? In Taiwanese and broader Chinese ritual practices, paper lotus flowers are burned as offerings to the dead—a way of sending messages, blessings, or unspoken words across worlds. Seen through this lens, Paper Flowers and Burning Letters begin to align. These are letters that can only be delivered through fire, blooming briefly in flame before falling into ash. They are not meant for the living, but for those who are no longer reachable by ordinary means.

Beyond the haunting imagery, what stays with me when listening to Paper Flowers is this persistent human impulse: the need to reach one another—through memory, ritual, music—even when distance, time, or loss makes that connection impossible.

Perhaps that is why a single line from Riding a White Horse keeps returning to me:

我一心只想王寶釧。
All my heart longs only for Wang Bao-Chuan.

Not everyone gets to cross worlds or reunite after long separation. Sometimes, connection looks much smaller: a shared song, a night ride through the city, moving across languages and moments together. And maybe that, too, is enough.