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, June 23, 2020

For Someone Far Away

All year I stay alone in my bedroom
dreaming of Mounting Pass, remembering our
           separation.
No swallow comes with letters in its claws.
I see only the new moon like the eyebrow of a moth.

--Wang Wei (701-761)
translated by Tony Barnstone and Chou Ping
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