They say you’re staying in a mountain temple,
In Hang-chou–or is it Yüeh-chou?
In the wind and grime of war, how long since we parted!
At Chiang-han, bright autumns waste away.
While my shadow rests by monkey-loud trees,
my soul whirls off to where shell-born towers rise.
Next year on floods of spring I’ll go downriver,
to the white clouds at the end of the east I’ll look for you!
translated by Burton Watson
We send you home to a grave on Stone Tower Mountain;
through the green green of pine and cypress, mourners’ carriages return.
Among white clouds we’ve laid your bones–it is ended forever;
only the mindless waters remain, flowing down to the world of men.
translated by Burton Watson
We dismount; I give you wine
and ask, where are you off to?
You answer, nothing goes right!–
back home to lie down by Southern Mountain.
Go then–I’ll ask no more–
there’s no end to white clouds there.
translated by Burton Watson
Sailing on the Great Lake at sunset
mist and waves and everywhere sorrow
rising and falling events of the past
who can tell me why they flow east
translated by Red Pine
Hill shapes merge with the far-off sky
east of the mist-covered marshlands
the ocean glows with the day’s first light
the river turns white in the distant wind
steep trails lead to a high plateau
small paths link columns of smoke
why are all my retired friends
not here among the Five Lakes
translated by Red Pine
My white hair extends three miles
the sorrow of parting made it this long
looking in a mirror who would guess
where autumn frost comes from
translated by Red Pine
After Tien-shan’s snows, cold desert wind.
Flute sounds all about, the going hard.
Three hundred thousand men, among these rocks,
this once, as one, together turn: gaze on the moon.
translated by J.P. Seaton
The garden’s desert, crumbling walls, as willows green again.
Even the sweet song of spring’s a lament.
Nothing of what was, but the moon above the river,
moon that shone on a pretty face in the palace of the king of Wu.
translated by J.P. Seaton
The children pull at my coat and inquire,
“You’ve come home, oh, why so late?
Who were you fighting with all these years,
to win that head of white hair?”
translated by J.P. Seaton
My Tao: at the root, there’s no me. . .
yet I don’t despise worldly men.
And now I’ve been in the city. . .
so I know I really mean that.
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.
An 'erm, what I doing with my life?' cabaret.
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 