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, October 5, 2018

Napping at Noon

Napping at noon I lie beside blossoms on mats of streamwater
current. When sun turns shadow red, I rise blinds to look deep.

Seeing me, birds cry and startle away through this dream where
distant rivers and mountains hold sorrow's every twist and turn.

--Wang An-Shih
translated by David Hinton
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