we scamper
among the trees
Ali and me
two kids
in a farmer’s field
plucking figs
from trees
and giggling
as we split them open
to taste
their sweetness
guilty pleasure
a break from work
washing our hands
in the sprinklers
before climbing back
in a waiting car
to return
to the business
at hand

Man’s life is like morning dew,
a flame eating up the oil night by night.
Why should I strain my ears
listening to the squeaks of this autumn insect?
Better lay aside the book
and drink my cup of jade-white wine.

translated by Burton Watson

children play outside
women laugh at table
a father pushes a swing
sprinklers water lawns
wind rustles curtains
a feral cat cries for food
the sun rises
and sets
this is a day
like any other
and yet words
were exchanged
promises made
a future unravels
where once
only a past existed
and those lyrics
to Rodgers and Hart
take on a new significance
once again

Where a poem belongs is here, in the warmth of the chest;
Out in the world it dies of cold.

translated by Robert Bly

Don’t worry about saving these songs!
And if one of our instruments breaks,
it doesn’t matter.

We have fallen into the place
where everything is music.

The strumming and the flute notes
rise into the atmosphere,
and even if the world’s harp
should burn up, there will still be
hidden instruments playing.

So the candle flickers and goes out.
We have a piece of flint, and a spark.

This singing art is sea foam.
The graceful movements come from a pearl
somewhere on the ocean floor.

Poems reach up like spindrift and the edge
of driftwood along the beach, wanting!

They derive
from a slow and powerful root
that we can’t see.

Stop the words now.
Open the window in the center of your chest,
and let the spirits fly in and out.

translated by Coleman Barks with John Moyne