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, November 9, 2019

* * *

Before this autumn wind
even the shadows of mountains
shudder and tremble


* * *

O autumn winds,
tell me where I'm bound, to which
particular hell


* * *

The vanity of men --
they would like to retain
this passing winter moon


--Issa
translated by Sam Hamil


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