So tender, so tender, the grasses on the plain,
in one year, to wither, then flourish.
Wildfire cannot burn them away.
Spring breezes’ breath, they spring again,
their distant fragrance on the ancient way,
their sunlit emerald greens the ruined walls.
Seeing you off again, dear friend,
sighing, sighing, full of parting’s pain.
translated by J.P. Seaton
2 thoughts on “Grass on the Ancient Plain by Po Chu-i”
A powerful poem. Life is all about resilience and endurance, even in the fragile appeareance of grass.
Glad you liked it.