The haunting melody of Er Quan Ying Yue (Moon Reflected on Second Spring) lingers in the air like a whisper from the past, a sonic embodiment of sorrow and resilience. Its creator, the blind folk musician Abing (born Hua Yanjun), remains one of China’s most enigmatic and tragic artistic figures. His life, etched in poverty and hardship, became the crucible for a musical masterpiece that transcends time.

Born in 1893 in Wuxi, Jiangsu province, Abing’s early years offered no hint of the suffering to come. The son of a Taoist priest, he grew up surrounded by religious rituals and traditional music. By his teens, he’d mastered multiple instruments, particularly the erhu (two-stringed fiddle) and pipa (lute). But fate dealt him a cruel hand—by his late 20s, untreated syphilis robbed him of his sight, and societal stigma forced him into street performance as a beggar-musician.

What makes Abing’s story extraordinary isn’t just his blindness, but how he transformed adversity into art. Unlike conservatory-trained composers, he absorbed music through the rhythms of daily struggle—the cries of street vendors, the murmur of crowds, the silence of moonlit nights by the Second Spring (a historic Wuxi landmark). His improvisations blended Taoist ceremonial music with raw folk traditions, creating a sound that was at once deeply personal and universally resonant.

The genesis of Er Quan Ying Yue remains shrouded in mystery. Some scholars believe Abing composed it during the Japanese occupation (1937-1945), when Wuxi’s Second Spring became a refuge. Others suggest it evolved over years of nocturnal performances near the spring. What’s undeniable is its emotional depth—the erhu’s mournful tones seem to weep for lost love (Abing’s wife left him after his blindness), while sudden, forceful passages evoke defiance against destiny’s cruelty.

For decades, Abing’s music existed only as ephemeral street performances until 1950, when musicologists Yang Yinliu and Cao Anhe tracked him down. They recorded six pieces, including Er Quan Ying Yue, on primitive wire recorders. These recordings, now considered national treasures, captured not just melodies but the very texture of Abing’s life—the squeak of his erhu’s worn strings, his labored breathing (he was dying of lung disease), even street noises intruding during takes. Within months of these sessions, Abing died penniless at 57, never knowing his work would achieve immortality.

The afterlife of Er Quan Ying Yue reads like artistic vindication. Initially dismissed as "folk ditties," it gained recognition when violinists like Isaac Stern praised its complexity. Today, it’s performed in concert halls worldwide, adapted for symphonies, and even inspired AI-generated "completions" of Abing’s lost works. Yet no rendition matches the raw pathos of those original scratchy recordings—a reminder that true art often springs from unvarnished humanity.

Abing’s legacy raises profound questions about how society values artists. Would his genius have flourished without suffering? Would he have composed differently with institutional support? These paradoxes haunt our understanding of creativity. His life underscores how marginal figures—those existing on society’s edges—often distill culture’s purest expressions.

In modern Wuxi, tourists pose by the Second Spring, now a manicured park. Few grasp that this tranquil spot once echoed with the sound of a blind man’s erhu, his music pouring forth like water from the spring itself—relentless, essential, flowing through time. Abing’s story isn’t just about music; it’s about how art can emerge from darkness to illuminate the human condition.