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 12, 2018

Sent Far Away

The year drags on. I hoard the emptiness of this bed,
my dreams all mountain passes and grief of separation.

I never see letters from home arriving with wild geese,
only you in the new moon, that moth's eyebrow rising.
--Wang Wei
(699-759)
translated by David Hinton
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