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
Nurture the tender blossoms there, don’t wait.
No flowers to be plucked
from empty bough.
translated by J.P. Seaton
Rapt in wine against the mountain rains,
dressed I dozed in evening brightness,
and woke to hear the watch drum striking dawn.
In dreams I was a butterfly,
my joyful body light.
I grow old, my talents are used up,
but still I plot toward the return. . .
to find a field and take a cottage
where I can laugh at heroes,
and pick my way among the muddy puddles
on a lakeside path.
translated by J.P. Seaton
Lotus withered, no more umbrellas to the rain.
A single branch, chrysanthemum stands against the frost.
The good sights of the year: remember those,
and now too: citrons yellow, tangerines still green.
translated by J.P. Seaton
The old fisherman spends his night beneath the western cliffs.
At dawn, he boils Hsiang’s waters, burns bamboo of Ch’u.
When the mist’s burned off, and the sun’s come out, he’s gone.
The slap of oars, the mountain waters green.
Turn and look, at heaven’s edge, he’s moving with the flow.
Above the clıffs, the aimless clouds go too.
translated by J.P. Seaton
I say all pity, woman, is a fraud
Unless that pity turns into red rage
Which will not rest until this ancient thorn
Is drawn at last from deep in mankind’s flesh.
translated by John Willett
With friends it’s not how many you have
but only whether they share your heart or not.
translated by Burton Watson
Why does my host tell me the money has run out?
Buy more wine at once–my friends have cups to be refilled!
My dappled mount,
my furs worth a thousand–
call the boy, have him take them and barter for fine wine!
Together we’ll wash away ten thousand years of care.
translated by Burton Watson
Nights are long and I cannot sleep
the clear moon so bright and shining.
I think I hear a voice fitfully calling,
and futilely I answer yes to the empty sky.
translated by Burton Watson
In the hottest time, when all is still and windless
and summer clouds rise up at dusk,
under the dense leaves, take my hand
and we’ll float melons on the water, dunk crimson plums.
translated by Burton Watson
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 