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, November 17, 2017

Lines Three, Five, Seven Words Long

Autumn wind clear,
autumn moon bright,

fallen leaves gather in piles, then scatter,
and crows settling-in, cold, startle away.

Will we ever see, ever even think of each other again?
This night, this moment: impossible to feel it all.

--Li Po
(755-762)
translated by David Hinton
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