The palm at the end of the mind, beyond the last thought, rises in the bronze distance. A gold feathered bird sings in the palm, without human meaning, without human feeling, a foreign song. You know then that it is not the reason that makes us happy or unhappy.
The bird sings. Its feathers shine. The palm stands on the edge of space. The wind moves slowly in the branches. The bird's fire-fangled feathers dangle down.

Friday, April 18, 2014

* * *

So hard to see you, so hard to leave.
The east wind slackens, the flowers all wither,
a spring silkworm spits silk until it dies.
A candle weeps till it's a burnt nub.

In the morning mirror I worry my hair is whitening.
At night I chant poems touched by cold moonlight.
I know that paradise, an island of fairies, is close.
Bluebird, please show me the way.

--Li Shangyin (813-858)
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