I left the Yiching in the woods
now I drift with the gulls by the stream
among the singers of the way of Ch’u
to whom do you most often turn

translated by Red Pine

You came with New Year’s greetings
walking here alone in the bitter cold
knocking on a bamboo temple gate at night
covered with snow from your hike through the hills
after starting a fire deep in my stove
and closing the door to my empty room
we shared a gourd full of wine
and didn’t speak of all the things that went wrong

translated by Red Pine

Footfalls echo in the memory
Down the passage which we did not take
Towards the door we never opened
Into the rose-garden. My words echo
Thus, in your mind.
But to what purpose
Disturbing the dust on a bowl of rose-leaves
I do not know.

the only person
to talk to
in a land foreign
to my ears
my voice
familiar
in echo

Flick of perfume, slight, and faintly bitter
on my wrist, where her hand had rested

Two wrist-bones and the soft thud of veins
printed on the hard flesh of her palm

The drinks
finished but untasted