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, January 19, 2018
Farewell
Here in these mountains, our farewell over,
sun sinking away, I close my brushwood gate.
Next spring, grasses will grow green again.
And you, my old friend -- will you be back too?
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