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, February 21, 2020

Spring at Wu Ling

The breeze has passed,
pollen dust settled,
and now the evening comes
as I comb out my hair.

There is the book, the inkstone,
the table. But he who was
my life has disappeared.
It is hard to speak through tears.

I've heard it's always spring
at Wu Ling, and beautiful.
I'd take a little boat and drift
alone out on the water,
 
but I am afraid a boat
so small would sink
with the weight
of all my sorrow.


--Li Chi'ing-chao
(1084-1151)
translated by Sam Hamil
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