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 11, 2020

To The Tune Of "Washing Creek Sands"

Spring night,
My jade body is soft as a gold hairpin
as, back to the lamp, I unfasten my silk skirt.
But the quilt and pillow are cold. The night's
           fragrance is gone.

Spring is a deep courtyard of many locked doors.
Petals falling in falling rain make the night seem
            forever.
Regret comes to me in dream. There is no escape.


--Zhu Shuzhen (1063-1106)
Translated by Kenneth Rexroth
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