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.

Wednesday, March 24, 2021

To a Visitor

 Listen to the cicadas in treetops near the waterfall;

See how last night's rains have washed away all grime.

Needless to say, my hut is as empty as can be,

But I can offer you a window full of the most

             intoxicating air! 


--Ryokan

translated by John Stevens

 


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