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.

Sunday, December 3, 2017

The Han River

Steady and full, all surging swells and white gulls in flight,
it flows springtime deep, a green so pure, it should dye robes.

Going south and coming back north, I've grown older, older.
Late night lingers, farewell to a fishing boat bound for home.

--Tu Mu
(803-853)
translated by David Hinton
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1 comment:

  1. AnonymousJune 4, 2018 at 11:30 AM

    You are my breathing in, I own few blogs and occasionally run out from post :).

    ReplyDelete

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