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.

Tuesday, December 19, 2017

A Little Village

On the broad Huai, among many islands, a village appears:
thorn-gate fences, their tattered openings the only gates.

Squawking back and forth, cold chickens scuffle for food,
and old-timers without clothes cradle their grandchildren.

Sparrows nest in ragged rigging on battered little boats,
and the river's gnawed at mulberries until the bank's all

roots dangling in air. O, this is how they live. It's fantasy
listing them in tax books along some emperor's people.

--Mei Yao Ch'En
(1002 to 1060)
translated by David Hinton
 
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