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, September 20, 2020

In Reply To Liu Ch' ai-Sang

In a meager home, guests rare, I often
forget I am surrounded by turning seasons.

And now falling leaves fill courtyard
emptiness, I grow sad, realizing it's

autumn already. Fresh sunflower thickets
fill north windows. Sweet grains in south

fields ripen. Though I am far from happy
today, I know next year may never come.

Get the kids together, I tell my wife,
it's a perfect day for a nice long walk.


--T'ao Ch'ien (365-427 A.D.)

translated by David Hinton
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