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.

Tuesday, May 7, 2019

* * *

With the warbler for
a soul, it sleeps peacefully,
this mountain willow



Long conversations
beside blooming irises --
joys of life on the road



Even these long days
Are not nearly long enough
for the skylarks to sing



--Basho
translated by David Hinton
Posted by at

No comments:

Post a Comment

Subscribe to: Post Comments (Atom)