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, June 13, 2020

To The Tune Of "A Lotus Leaf Cup"

I remember that year under the flowers
at midnight
when I first spent time with Miss Xie
in the pond chamber with a painted curtain hang on
           the west side,
And I held her hand and we made secret vows

till we felt grief of morning orioles and a left-over
moon,
but after she departed --
not one word,
and now like traveling strangers
there is no chance we will meet again.

--Wei Zhuang (c.836-910)
Translated by Geoffrey Waters
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