Thin cloud. Light rain.
Far cell. Closed to noon.
Sit. Look. Green moss
Becomes one with your clothes.
Spring pond deep and wide
Time for the vessel's return
Slow the duckweed flows together
Willows draw them apart again
You might know our home-town news,
As you came from our home-town.
Tell me what was your nice view?
Did my winter plum blossom?!
When those red berries come in springtime,
Flushing on your southland branches,
Take home an armful, for my sake,
As a symbol of our love.
A bird in flight goes on without limit,
Joined hills are autumn's colours again.
From top to bottom of Huazi Ridge,
Melancholy feeling has no end.
I sit along in the dark bamboo grove,
Playing the zither and whistling long.
In this deep wood no one would know -
Only the bright moon comes to shine.
The Bamboo Grove
Alone I sit, dark, among bamboos;
I pluck my qín, or whistle Taoist breathing.
Deep in forest, no one can know:
the bright moon visits me and shines.
A mountain apart, and not a man in sight,
Only an echo of the talk of men:
Returning light makes way through the deep woods
And shines upon the green moss to rise again.
For P'ei Ti
We’ve not seen each other
for a long time now.
Each day above the stream
I see us arm in arm.
Memory. Painful goodbyes.
If it feels like this now,
What did it feel like then?
A Song at Weicheng
A morning-rain has settled the dust in Weicheng;
Willows are green again in the tavern dooryard...
Wait till we empty one more cup –
West of Yang Gate there'll be no old friends.