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, March 21, 2021

* * *

Spring sunset, a willowy miss of sixteen

Returns home with an armful of mountain blossoms.

A drizzle caresses her flowers.

She turns heads as she goes by,

Her kimono held up with a slight hitch.

People ask each other:

"Whose daughter is that"?


--Ryokan

translated by John Stevens

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