there the distance
so far from here
this old heart
of roads of sails
of wings of rails
yet one step
before this heart
A hundred days, free to go, and it’s almost spring;
for the years left, pleasure will be my chief concern.
Out the gate, I do a dance, wind blows my face;
our galloping horses race along as magpies cheer.
I face the wine cup and it’s all a dream,
pick up a poem brush, already inspired.
Why try to fix the blame for past trouble?
Years now I’ve stolen posts I never should have had.
translated by Burton Watson
***Written on his release from prison after 130 days and before leaving for a remote post which was essentially like exile again.
worlds to explore
all by reading them
they serve another purpose
on the head
you shouldn’t go backward
on these roads
regardless of potholes
toward whatever future
not obliviating the past
what’s not important