Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Li Shang-yin

Mere chance that the patterned lute has fifty strings.
String and fret, one by one, recall the blossoming years.
Chang-tzu dreams at sunrise that a butterfly lost its way.
Wang-ti bequeathed his spring passion to the night jar.
The moon is full on the vast sea, a tear on the pearl.
On Blue Mountain the sun warms, a smoke issues from the jade.
Did it wait, this mood, to mature with hind sight?
In a trance from the beginning, then as now.

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