The four songs I have previously discussed—舊情綿綿, 車站, 雙人枕頭, and 雪中紅—belong to the rich tradition of old Taiwanese popular songs that many people of an earlier generation grew up listening to. Although their stories and melodies are different, they share something in common: love, separation, longing, and memories that refuse to disappear. They also remind us of a time when songs were an important part of everyday life, and when a few simple words in Taiwanese could express feelings that were sometimes difficult to say in ordinary conversation.
What I find particularly fascinating about these old songs is the way they preserve not only romantic stories but also something of the atmosphere of their time. 車站, for example, turns a railway station into a place of farewell and remembrance, while 雙人枕頭 evokes the intimacy of two people sharing a life that may no longer exist. 舊情綿綿 looks back at a love that has ended but not been forgotten, and 雪中紅 creates a particularly poignant picture of love and sorrow against a wintry background. Listening to these songs today is therefore rather like opening an old photograph album: the people and circumstances may belong to another era, but the emotions still feel remarkably familiar.
離別的月台票
Among old Taiwanese songs, 離別的月台票 is especially interesting because its very existence tells us something about the close musical relationship between Japan and Taiwan during the 1960s. The song was adapted from the Japanese song 別れの入場券, recorded by the well-known Japanese enka singer 松山恵子 in 1963. The Japanese lyrics were written by 松井由利夫, with music by 袴田宗孝. In Taiwan, it was sung in Taiwanese by 洪第七, and the Taiwanese version became one of his best-known songs.
The story is simple but deeply dramatic. A woman realizes that she has hurt the man she loves by pretending to be cold and uncaring. She wants to see him once more and explain her true feelings, so she hurries to the railway station. But when she arrives, the night train has already left. She can only stand on the platform, holding the 月台票—the platform ticket—and watch the rear light of the departing train disappear into the darkness. The repeated feeling is painfully simple: it is too late.
The song also has a remarkable connection with the early Taiwanese recording industry. 洪第七's album 洪弟七歌唱集：離別的月臺票 was issued around 1963–64, and the song became his signature hit. A film with the same title was released at the end of 1964 and helped make the song widely known. Interestingly, although the record credits 洪換秋 as lyricist, 洪第七 later said that he himself had written most of the Taiwanese lyrics.
What makes 離別的月台票 so moving to me is the combination of a very ordinary object—a platform ticket—and an irreversible moment in life. Once the train has gone, the ticket is useless. It becomes almost a symbol of regret: something that was supposed to allow a person to enter the platform, but cannot bring back the person who has already departed.
星夜的離別
星夜的離別 takes us into a somewhat different musical world. Unlike 離別的月台票, which is a Taiwanese-language song, this is the Mandarin version of a Japanese song, 星影のワルツ (Hoshikage no Warutsu, “The Waltz in the Starlight”). The Japanese original was composed by 遠藤実, with lyrics by 白鳥園枝, and was first recorded by 千昌夫 in 1966. It did not become an immediate sensation, but after being promoted again, it rose dramatically in popularity in Japan and became a major hit in 1968.
The melody is particularly memorable because it is actually a waltz, giving the song a gentle three-beat movement. Beneath that graceful rhythm, however, lies a very sad story. Two people love each other, but circumstances force them to separate. The singer does not blame the other person; instead, he wishes for her happiness from far away and asks the stars to bring her comfort. The stars therefore become silent witnesses to their farewell.
The song traveled widely across East and Southeast Asia and produced several different versions in Taiwan. The Mandarin 星夜的離別, with lyrics by the celebrated lyricist 慎芝, was recorded by singers including 青山; another Mandarin adaptation, 星月淚痕, was written by 林煌坤. There was also a Taiwanese version, 星夜離別, associated with 郭金發, whose Taiwanese lyrics tell a somewhat different story: the lovers are forced apart because their parents oppose their relationship.
This makes 星夜的離別 especially fascinating. The same Japanese melody could cross languages and cultures and acquire different stories while retaining the same fundamental emotion: two people who love each other but cannot remain together.
A final thought
Looking at these six songs together, I am struck by how often the old songs return to the same few images: a railway station, a departing train, a pillow once shared by two people, snow, stars, and the memories of a love that has already passed. Yet they never seem completely repetitive. Each song finds its own way of expressing the sadness of separation.
Perhaps that is one reason these old songs have survived for so many decades. The world around us has changed enormously. We now have telephones, text messages, and countless ways to remain in contact with someone far away. But the essential feelings have not changed very much. We still regret words left unsaid, remember people who have gone away, and wonder whether things might have been different if we had arrived a little earlier—or spoken a little more honestly.
That is why, when we listen to these old Taiwanese and Mandarin songs today, we are not merely listening to music from another era. We are hearing old melodies carrying very old human feelings—feelings that, in spite of the passing of time, still belong to us.
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相關文章 (See also)：
1) 托塞利《小夜曲》聆聽札記 (2025)
2) 兩首老歌 -- Old Taiwanese Songs (2025)
3) A Song of Living Love (2026)
4) 舊情綿綿、車站、雙人枕頭、雪中紅 (2026)
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