The burgeoning trees are thick with leaves.
The birds are singing on all the hills.
The east wind blows softly.
The birds sing, the flowers dance.
This minor magistrate is drunk.
Tomorrow when he wakes up,
Spring will no longer be new.
translated by Kenneth Rexroth
The shadows of the t’ung tree, glistening and clear,
having just passed,
Bells under the eaves tinkle in the wind,
breaking off my daytime sleep.
In a dream I found myself in a painted hall with no one around,
And only a pair of swallows softly treading zither strings.
translated by Irving, Y. Lo
Shoreless breeze from heaven over an endless road–
Serving the moon, my master, I’ll always be the custodian of wind and dew.
I will take only a thousand goblets as my lunar salary,
Because I dislike the smell of copper mixed with the flowers’ scent.
translated by Irving Y. Lo
I play a reed flute
On a Sprıng’s hill,
Longing for old home.
I play a reed flute
On a blooming hill,
Longing for childhood days.
I play a reed flute
In human streets,
Longing for earthly things.
I play a reed flute
On an endless wandering
Over the vales of tears.
When I die,
I’ll become a blue bird.
I’ll fly over
Blue Sky and blue field.
I’ll sing blue songs
And blue laments.
When I die,
I’ll become a blue bird.
The green waters roar as if angry,
the blue mountains hush, as if frowning.
Musing on the mountains and waters I realize
they hate my going into the world of wind and dust.
translated by Kim Jong-gil
On an ordinary autumn evening
Ordinary fruit is better.
Sometimes ordinary words
With no particular savor
Suit me better.
Hearing in memory
The last car depart,
I step over
The membrane of sleep,
And a fruit falls in my dream.
I will ask the wind
That departs in the morning
To what depths the fruit has fallen.
When I die,
I will become a rock,
never touched
by compassion, joy or anger.
While being torn down by wind and rain,
It will only whip itself inwards
in eternal, impersonal silence,
and at last forget its own existence;
Floating clouds, distant thunder!
Though it may dream,
it will never sing.
Though broken in pieces,
it will never utter a word.
I will become such a rock.
An old temple leans against the green hillside,
The Traveling Palace nestles next to the emerald flow.
Sounds of waters, and the sheen of the mountain locked in the painted tower.
Past memories send my thoughts far away.
Morning rain and clouds return at dusk,
Mist and flowers, in spring as in autumn.
Why should the screeching of the monkeys get so close to the solitary boat?
The traveler has enough sorrows of his own.
translated by Hellmut Wilhelm
From non-being into being: the cloud peaks gather;
From being back to non-being: the lightning flash goes out.
To gather or to disperse is all illusory:
Only the meddlers keep up their useless jabbering.
translated by Irving Y. Lo
Being Present for the Moment
Website storys
Illustration, Concept Art & Comics/Manga
Singer, Songwriter and Author from Kyoto, Japan.
Singer, Songwriter and Author from Kyoto, Japan.
An online activist from Bosnia and Herzegovina, based in Sarajevo, standing on the right side of the history - for free Palestine.
A place where I post unscripted, unedited, soulless rants of a insomniac madman
Finding Inspiration
Off the wall, under the freeway, over the rainbow, nothin' but net.
A virtual cabaret of songs, stories and questionable life choices.
Artist by choice, photographer by default, poet and author by accident.
At Least Trying Too
A Journey of Spiritual Significance
Life in islamic point of view
Through the view point of camera...
L'essenziale è invisibile e agli occhi e al cuore. Beccarlo è pura questione di culo
In Kate's World
Leonard Durso 