The white rising moon
is your bright beauty
binding me in spells
till my heart’s devoured.
The light moon soars
resplendent like my lady,
binding me in light chains
till my heart’s devoured.
Moon in white glory,
you are the beautiful one
who delicately wounds me
till my heart’s devoured.
translated by Tony Barnstone & Willis Barnstone
In this warm country, there is no autumn hue;
Over the clear river, a bright sunset.
Buzz, buss–a few remaining cicadas,
Still reluctant to bid the traveler farewell.
In the small village a dog guards me;
On the flat sand, a monk alone returns.
I wish to gaze toward the northwest,
But all I see are partridges flying again!
translated by James J.Y. Liu
White hair! Three thousand yards of it.
And a sadness, a sorrow, as long.
I don’t understand. Where did my bright mirror
find all this autumn frost?
translated by J.P. Seaton
Though there is a tower with railings to lean on,
How can I do without wine to pour?
Dank clouds hang over the mountain range in spring;
The river moon shines clear and bright at night.
The fish are disturbed–to whom can letters be entrusted?
The apes cry sadly–my dreams are easily startled.
My old home adjoined the Imperial Park:
It was the time when the oriole moved to the tall tree.
translated by James J.Y. Liu
You are standing on a bridge enjoying the view;
Someone’s watching you from a balcony.
The moon adorns your window;
You adorn someone else’s dream.
translated by Michelle Yeh
I sit alone among the tallest of the tall bamboo,
pluck the lute, and whistle melodies, again.
This deep grove’s unknown to other men.
Bright moon, when it comes: we shine together.
translated by J.P. Seaton
Whose jade flute secretly soars in the night?
Spring wind scatters sound all over Luoyang.
The midnight flute keens a farewell song, “Snap the Willow Branch.”
Thinking of my old home and garden, I break.
translated by Tony Barnstone & Chou Ping
Washed clean by dew, cicada songs go far
and like windblown leaves piling up
each cicada’s cry blends into the next.
Yet each lives on its own branch.
translated by Tony Barnstone & Chou Ping
In water lands, night frost on reeds,
a cold moon the color of the mountains.
Who says our thousand-mile separation starts tonight?
My dream can travel to the farthest border pass.
translated by Tony Barnstone & Chou Ping
A fisherman spends the night under West Rock,
pails clear river water and burns bamboo.
Smokes vanishes, sun rises, and no one is seen.
The swishing oar turns mountains and water green.
Floating the central current, he turns to gaze at the sky
above rock where mindless clouds chase each other.
translated by Tony Barnstone & Chou Ping
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 