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.

Thursday, December 22, 2022

Drinking Alone Beneath the Moon

Among the blossoms, a single jar of wine.No one else here, I ladle it out myself.Raising my cup, I toast the bright moon,and facing my shadow makes friends three,though moon has never understood wine,and shadow only trails along behind me.Kindred a moment with moon and shadow,I've found a joy that must infuse spring:I sing, and moon rocks back and forth;I dance, and shadow tumbles into pieces.Sober, we're together and happy. Drunk,we scatter away into our own directions.Intimates forever, we'll wander carefreeand meet again in Star River distances.

 

--Li Po

translated by David Hinton 

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