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.

Wednesday, October 3, 2018

Parting in River-Serene

Ravaged chrysanthemums blacken. Autumn wind returns,
and rain like the rain when early plums ripen to yellow.

Hand in hand, why talk? We gaze together into grief every-
where in sight. Isn't this where mind knows itself utterly?

--Wang An-Shih 
translated by David Hinton
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