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.

Thursday, June 18, 2020

At Hengtang Ferry

By Hengtang Ferry, walking close to the water,
you come from the west, and I am going east.
I am not a singing girl
but from big red houses with big names.
I spit on you by accident when blowing away flowers.
Thank you for returning my gaze.
I live by the rainbow bridge,
the red door at the cross road.
Just find the lily magnolia,
but don't pass the poplars and plum trees.

--Yuan Hongdao (1568-1610)
Translated by John Scott and Graham Martin
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