Sick Cicada by Chia Tao

A sick cicada, unable now to fly,
Walks over onto my palm.
Its broken wing can still grow thinner.
And its bitter songs are clear as ever.
Dewdrops stick on its belly,
Dust specks fallen by mischance in its eyes.
The oriole and the kite as well
Both harbor the thought of your ruin.

translated by Stephen Owen

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