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 28, 2021

Hearing an Oriole at the Palace

 

In spring trees shrouding palace windows,

a spring oriole sings dawn light into song.


It sets out to startle the world, stops short,

flutters here, there. Return impossibly far,


it hides deep among dew-drenched leaves,

darts into blossoms and out, never settled.


We wander life, never back. Even a simple

birdcall starts us dreaming of home again.


--Wang Wei (701-761 CE)

translated by David Hinton

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