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, October 3, 2020

Drinking Wine

            2

The Way's been in ruins a thousand
years. People all hoard their hearts

away: so busy scrambling for esteemed
position, they never touch wine.

But whatever makes living precious
occurs in this one life, and this

life never lasts. It's startling,
sudden as lightning. These hundred

years offer all abundance: Take it!
What more could you make of yourself?


--T'ao Ch'ien (365-427 A.D.)
translated by David Hinton
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