You polish words in rue-scented libraries,
and I live in bamboo-leaf gardens, a recluse
wandering every day the same winding path
home to rest in the quiet, no noise anywhere.
A bird soaring the heights can choose a tree,
but the hedge soon tangles impetuous goats.
Today, things seen becoming thoughts felt:
this is where you start forgetting the words.
translated by David Hinton
Sweet prose
Thank you. Glad you liked it.
You’re welcome 🙂
One of my very favorites in Hinton’s collection. Thank you for the reminder of it.
Thanks. I’m glad you appreciate it.