Wednesday, August 12, 2009

Tai Qian

Wild grass, how vast, vast;
White poplars too, sighing, sighing.
Harsh frost has come in the middle of the ninth month,
and you send me off in the distant countryside.
On all sides, there’s no one living:
just tall tombs towering, in rows.
So the horse lifts his head and neighs;
So the wind, alone, blows bleakly.
The dark chamber — once it’s already closed,
in a thousand years, the dawn will not come again.
In a thousand years, the dawn will not come again,
and the sages, the wise — they cannot help —
it’s in the past. People see each other off
and each person returns home —
the relatives. Perhaps their sorrow stays;
but they’ve already sung for other people,
dead and gone now. Where gone?
Entrust the body to a fold in the mountains.

No comments: