Late, when it returns from the city wall;
Perilous, where it perches for the night in a courtyard–
The moon brightens a leafless tree,
Frost makes slippery the windy branches.
Crying hoarse, its throat is parched;
Flying low, its frozen wings droop.
The parrots in the painted hall
Do not know cold from warmth.
translated by Irving Y. Lo
A flower, and yet not a flower
Of mist, and yet not of mist
At midnight she comes
And at daybreak, leaves.
She comes like a spring dream, for how long?
She goes like morning dew, without a trace.
translated by Eugene Eoyang
A hall by the water where the flowers grow dense,
A sunny day in spring just before noon–
A bird peeps at the window facing the rail,
A horse passes by–the crack of a whip beyond the wall.
translated by Irving Y. Lo
A clear night in harvest time.
In the courtyard at headquarters
The wu-tung tree grows cold.
In the city by the river
I wake alone by a guttering
Candle. All night long bugle
Calls disturb my thoughts. The splendor
Of the moonlight floods the sky.
Who bothers to look at it?
Whirlwinds of dust, I cannot write.
The frontier pass is unguarded.
It is dangerous to travel.
Ten years wandering, sick at heart.
I perch here like a bird on a
Twig, thankful for a moment’s peace.
translated by Kenneth Rexroth
Flutes mourn on the city wall. It is dusk:
the last birds cross our village graveyard,
and after decades of battle, their war-tax
taken, people return in deepening night.
Trees darken against cliffs. Leaves fall.
The river of stars faintly skirting beyond
frontier passes, I gaze at a tilting Dipper,
the moon thin, magpies done with flight.
translated by David Hinton
Up the river by the White King City,
The water swells and the wind is high.
It is May. Through the Chu-tang gorge
Who dares to sail down to me now–
Down to Ching-chow, where the barley is ripe
And the silk worms have made their cocoons–
Where I sit and spin, with my thoughts of you
Endless as the silk strands?
The cuckoo calls high up in the air. Ah, me!. . .
translated by Shigeyoshi Obata
The road to Shuh is more difficult to climb than to climb the steep blue heaven.
I shrug my shoulders and heave a long sigh–gazing into the west.
translated by Shigeyoshi Obata
The wind blows the willow bloom and fills the whole tavern with fragrance
While the pretty girls of Wu bid us taste the new wine.
My good comrades of Chin-ling, hither you have come to see me off.
I, going, still tarry; and we drain our cups evermore.
Pray ask the river, which is the longer of the two–
Its east-flowing stream, or the thoughts of ours at parting!
translated by Shigeyoshi Obata
Here friends come, sorrowing, to say farewell,
Oh Lao-lao Ting, tavern where every heart must ache.
Here even the wind of spring knows the pain of parting,
And will not let the willow branches grow green.
translated by Shigeyoshi Obata
You ask me when I am coming. I do not know.
I dream of your mountains and autumn pools brimming all night with the rain.
Oh, when shall we be trimming wicks again, together in your western window?
When shall I be hearing your voice again, all night in the rain?
translated by Witter Bynner & Kiang Kang-hu
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
Finding Inspiration
Off the wall, under the freeway, over the rainbow, nothin' but net.
A virtual cabaret of songs, stories and questionable life choices.
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 