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.

Tuesday, March 30, 2021

In the Mountains, for my Brothers

 

In the mountain forests, I've lost myself completely:

identity's nothing but the role we play in public.

 

Why bother to study sage Hsi K'ang's laziness

or work to perfect Yuan Hsien's noble poverty

 

when streamwater's my neighbor to the east

and mountain shadow lavish at my north gate?

 

Appearance emerges from chance conditions,

and our true nature's empty, kindred to nothing,

 

so how do you know an ancient recluse master?

Not by the old-timer's form he somehow took on.   


--Wang Wei (701-761 CE)

translated by David Hinton

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