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.

Monday, March 15, 2021

Clear After Rain

Long after rainfall, Sorceress Hills grow dark.

But now they brighten, stitched with gold and silver.


Green grass edges the darkening lake

and clouds stream red from the east.

 

All day long, the orioles call,

and cranes brush these tall white clouds.

 

Once dry, these wild flowers bend, and there 

where the wind is sweeping, fall.

 

--Tu Fu

translated by Sam Hamil

 

 


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