It’s so hard to be together, and so hard to part: a tender
east wind is powerless: the hundred blossoms crumble:
the heart-thread doesn’t end until the silkworm’s dead,
and tears don’t dry until the candle’s burnt into ash:
she grieves, seeing white hair in her morning mirror,
and chanting at night, she feels the chill of moonlight:
exquiste Paradise Mountain–it isn’t so very far away,
and that azure bird can show us the way back anytime.
translated by David Hinton
The pellucid road winds back around into twilight clouds:
a seven-scented carriage, cry of a dappled horse cut short:
spring wind offers itself everywhere, opens into enticing
smiles that leave a country’s ten thousand homes in ruins.
translated by David Hinton
Idle sleep in a small pavilion clears away the ease of wine:
mountain pomegranate and sea cypress, branches tangled
together on a rippling-water bed-mat, pillows of amber:
and nearby, a fallen hairpin, a pair of kingfisher feathers.
translated by David Hinton
Kids keep tugging at my robes, asking:
Why did it take you so long to come back?
And who were you fighting those months
and years to win all that silk-white hair?
translated by David Hinton
These mountains emerald clouds at the far end of distance.
In tonight’s clarity, one sound: a whisper of white snow.
I’m sending thoughts of you a thousand miles of moonlight:
scraps of light along canyon streams, haze of steady rain.
translated by David Hinton
Steady and full, all surging swells and white gulls in flight,
it flows springtime deep, a green so pure it should dye robes.
Going south and coming back north, I’ve grown older, older.
Late light lingers, farewell to a fishing boat bound for home.
translated by David Hinton
A thousand goblets at the farewell feast
can’t dilute my sorrow,
my heart at separation is twisted
in a hundred unyielding knots.
Tender orchids wilt and wither,
return to the garden of spring;
willow trees, here and there,
moor travelers’ boats.
In meeting and parting I lament
the unsettled clouds;
love and affection should learn from the river
in flowing on and on.
I know we won’t meet again
in the season of blossoms,
and I won’t sit by quietly
drunk in my chamber.
translated by Jan W. Walls
Climbing far into the cold mountains, the rocky path steepens
and houses grow rare. Up here where white clouds are born,
I stop to sit for a while, savoring maple forests in late light,
frost-glazed leaves lit reds deeper than any spring blossoms.
translated by David Hinton
Frosty skies open empty depths of wind.
Moonlight floods fulling-stones clarities.
As the dream ends, I am dying at night:
I am beside a beautiful woman, thoughts
deepening–a leaf trees shed in the dark,
a lone goose leaving borderlands behind.
Then I’m in travel clothes, setting out,
heart and mind all distances beyond sky.
translated by David Hinton
I see a cloud at day’s end and just can’t look away.
It has no mind at all, no mind and surely no talent:
a sad flake of bright jade radiant with color, drifting
ten thousand miles of clear sky, nowhere it began.
translated by David Hinton
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
Dennis Mantin is a Toronto-based writer, artist, and filmmaker.
Finding Inspiration
Off the wall, under the freeway, over the rainbow, nothin' but net.
Erm, what am I doing with my life?
Artist by choice, photographer by default, poet 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 