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.

Sunday, January 5, 2020

Peonies at Jixing Temple

Springtime radiance, gradually, gradually, where does
          it go?
Again before the wine jar, we take up the goblet.
All day we've questioned the flowers, but the flowers
          do not speak.
For whom do they shed their petals and leaves, for
          whom do they bloom?


--Emperor Yang (Sui Dynasty) 
(569-618)
Translated Anon
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