Nights are long when she can’t sleep;
the bright moon glitters like a bangle.
She thinks she hears an answer to a prayer. . .
“Yes. . .,” she murmurs, into empty air.
translated by J.P. Seaton
anonymous Chinese poet
I Climb A Hilltop: anti-war poem from the Book of Songs
I climb a rock-strewn hilltop
and gaze, gaze out toward my
father, O father calling: My child, my child dragged off to war,
no rest all day and all night.
Take care, take care and be ever
homeward, not stuck out there.
I climb a grass-patch hilltop
and gaze, gaze out toward my
mother, O mother calling: My little one, my little one dragged off to war,
no sleep all day and all night.
Take care, take care and be ever
homeward, not lost out there.
I climb some windblown ridge
and gaze, gaze out toward my
brother, O brother calling: My brother, my brother dragged off to war,
formation all day and all night.
Take care, take care and be ever
homeward, not dead out there.
translated by David Hinton
anonymous Chinese poet 3rd Century B.C.
Going on aways on and on
alive, but parted from you
gone ten thousand miles and more
each to a far edge of the sky
translated by Charles Hartman
They Fought South of the Walls by an anonymous Chinese poet 3rd Century B.C.
They fought south of the walls
They died north of the ramparts.
Lying dead in the open, they won’t be buried,
the crows may eat them.
Tell the crows for me:
Please enjoy a sumptuous meal!
Lying dead in the open, they surely won’t be buried.
How can their rotting flesh get away from you!
The water runs deep and clear,
The rushes and reeds are dark.
The brave war steeds have died in battle,
The worthless nags neigh, running hither and thither.
The bridges have be made into buildings,
How can one go south?
How can one go north?
The grain is not harvested, how shall our lord eat?
And we who want to be loyal vassals, how can we succeed?
I think of you, fine vassals.
Fine vassals, indeed one should think of you.
In the morning you went out to attack,
In the evening you didn’t come back for the night.
translated by Hans H. Frankel
untitled Chinese poem 2 by anonymous poet
I cross the river to pluck hibiscus,
In the orchid marsh, many scented plants.
I pluck, but whom should I give them to?
For my love resides in a distant land.
Turning my head, I look toward home,
Along that vast and endless road.
Our hearts are one, yet we dwell apart,
Worrying and grieving till we grow old.
translated by Dell R. Hales
Leonard Durso 