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.

Saturday, August 18, 2018

Thoughts, Traveling At Night

In delicate beach-grass, a slight breeze.
The boat's mast teetering into solitary
Night, plains open away beneath foundering stars.
A moon emerges and, the river vast, flows.

How will poems bring honor? My career
lost to age and sickness, buffeted, adrift
On the wind - is there anything like it? All
Heaven and earth, and one lone sand-gull.

--Tu Fu
translated by David Hinton
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