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.

Sunday, July 26, 2020

Boat Of Stars

Spring after spring, I sat before my mirror.
Now I tire of braiding the plum buds in my hair.

I've gone another year without you,
shuddering with each letter --

since you've gone,
even wine has lost its flavor.

I wept until it was autumn,
my thoughts going south beside you.

Even the Gates of Heaven
are nearer to me now than you.


--Li Chi'ing-Chao 
(1084-1151)

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