An unknown evening hour
Of a station with an age-old platform, sadness
By my side, I knew no direction.
I had left you up there, in the sky
Dark were the trees and the road
Dark were your white clothes.
The night, that treasure, foreign stone
Your window was above the trees
No voice or iron can save me now.
Here I am in the hours
The hours are nowhere, no
Not in this direction, not in that.
I had left you up there, in the sky.
translated by Şehnaz Tahir-Gürçağlar
A spring day
here at the world’s end
the world’s end where once again
the sun is going down
the oriole’s cry–
if it had tears
it could water the blossoms
on top of the trees.
translated by David Young
Because of your long neck
you are a sad animal;
always quiet and gentle.
Your line must have been of high birth,
you have their noble crown.
Looking at your image in the water
brings back long-lost tales
with a nostalgia too sharp to bear.
You look over, stretching your sad neck
toward the far hill.
translated by Ko Won
Since you went away
Gold and green hairpins have lost their glint.
My longing thoughts of you, like sun and moon,
Circling round and round, rise day and night.
translated by Jan W. Walls
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
Going on always on and on
alive, but parted from you
gone ten thousand miles and more
each to a far edge of the sky
the road is hard and long
with nothing sure about meeting again
Tartar horses lean to the northern wind
Viet birds nest on southern boughs
days advance, the parting grows long
days advance, the sash grows loose
floating clouds hide the bright sun
the wanderer can think of no return
loving you I became old
suddenly the time is late–
enough I speak no more
try hard to stay well
translated by Charles Hartman
The wind stops.
Nothing is left of Spring but fragrant dust.
Although it is late in the day,
I have been too exhausted to comb my hair.
Our furniture is just the same,
But he no longer exists.
I am unable to do anything at all,
Before I can speak my tears choke me.
I hear that Spring at Two Rivers
Is still beautiful.
I had hoped to take a boat there,
But I am afraid my little boat
Is too small to ever reach Two Rivers,
Laden with my heavy heart.
translated by Kenneth Rexroth & Ling Chung
On Witch Mountain the fireflies flit in the autumn night:
Cleverly they enter the open lattice to alight on my clothes.
Suddenly I am startled at the coldness of my lute and books in the room;
Then I confuse the fireflies’ light with the sparse stars over the eaves.
Rounding the well’s railings, they come in an endless file;
Passing by chance the flower petals, they gambol and glow.
On this cold riverbank, my hair white, I feel sad when I look at them–
By this time next year, shall I have returned home?
translated by Wu-chi Liu
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.
where I gaze
the rain is ending and the clouds break up
as I lean at the rail in anxious silence
seeing off the last of autumn’s glow
the evening scene is lonely
enough to chill Sung Yü to sadness
though touch of wind and rain is light
the duckweed gradually grows older
in moon’s frost cold
the wu-t’ung leaves whirl yellow
giving love is taking pain
where are you now?
the misty waters vast, and vague.
it’s hard to forget
writing or drinking
how many nights alone beneath a clouded moon
again the changes, stars and frost
the seas are broad, the heavens far
and no way home.
the swallows pair
and I depend on letters
I point into the evening sky
to sight in vain the returning boat
at dusk we’ll gaze toward one another
in the sound of the swan’s cry
standing till the slanting sun is set.
translated by Jerome P. Seaton
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 