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, April 21, 2024

Two Poems

About Joy and Loss

A branch of bay laurel
        blends in elegance with dark mist,
alongside rivers, ten thousand peach trees
        blossom red in the rain.

For now, let's get drunk with celebratory cups of wine
        and leave your sad gazing behind—
from ancient times until now,
        sorrow and joy have been just the same.

 

 Farewell

Flexible, without its own form,
        water settles into what holds it.
Clouds arise from no-mind,
        but they are willing to return.
Spring winds spread melancholy
        over the river as the sun descends—
separated from her companions,
        a wild duck flies alone.
 


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