and now when both of us are old—
too late to look for a lost road,
too late, I’m afraid, to study the Way.
This fall I began talks to buy some land;
if I build a house, it should be done by spring.
Nights at Snow Hall, in wind and rain,
already I hear you talking to me.
translated by Burton Watson
Pear blossoms pale white, willows deep green—
when willow fluff scatters, falling blossoms will fill the town.
Snowy boughs by the eastern palisade set me pondering—
in a lifetime how many springs do we see?
translated by Burton Watson
Slimmer and slimmer–my chances of going home;
endless green hills ahead, water touching sky.
Even here a small boat comes selling cakes.
I’m glad to hear there’s a village this side of the mountain.
translated by Burton Watson
Bright moon, when did you appear?
Lifting my wine, I question the blue sky.
Tonight in the palaces and halls of heaven
what year is it, I wonder?
translated by Burton Watson
The hundred rivers day and night flow on,
we and all things following;
only the heart remains unmoved,
clutching the past.
translated by Burton Watson
Bell and drum on the south river bank–
home! I wake startled from a dream.
Drifting clouds–so the world shifts;
lone moon–such is the light of my mind.
Rain drenches down as from a tilted basin;
poems flow out like water spilled.
The two rivers vie to send me off;
beyond treetops I see the slant of a bridge.
translated by Burton Watson
All my life has been like this–
what way to turn and not run into blocks?
But Heaven has sent me a dipper of water;
arm for a pillow, my happiness overflows.
translated by Burton Watson
Thanks to the rain that fell at the third watch last night
I got another cool day in this floating life.
translated by Burton Watson
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
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 