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Number 14 of the 19 Music Bureau Poems
Gone and daily receding,
coming and daily more near.
Looking straight out the city gate:
mounds and hills, mounds and hills.
Ancient graves are plowed into fields.
Pine and cypress destroyed for kindling.
Winds of sorrow out of white poplars.
The swishing sound of the axe men.
The swishing sound of the axe men.
Dwelling on returning home--
no track, no trace of a road.
No way there from this longing.
The Spring Song of Lady Night
The spring woods
hold flowers of great beauty.
The spring birds
cause thoughts of great grief.
The spring breeze has also great feeling,
blowing open
my gauzy silk skirt.
--300-600 C.E.
Autumn Song of Lady Night
Opening the window
to the autumn moon,
she puts out the candle,
slipping off her silk skirt.
And suppressing a smile
within the curtained bed,
she arches her body,
spreading orchid fragrance
RETURNING TO MY COUNTRY HOME, NO. 1
From the first, I was unsuited to society,
but I had a natural love of hills and valleys.
Still, I fell into the snare of the world.
One little slip and thirteen years were gone.
Birds in cages love their old forests.
Fish in ponds still miss their home waters.
Tilling the south field at the edge of the wild,
still just a rustic, I've returned to my farm.
Around my house are ten or so acres,
dotted with the thatch of eight or nine huts.
Elm and willow overhang the back eaves.
Peach and plum lead away from the front hall.
A distant village is faint in the haze.
Thin smoke curls from the abandoned hamlet.
A dog barks from deep in the lane.
A cock crows in the mulberry tree.
This house is still free of the dust of the world,
its empty rooms full of time and quiet.
After so long, long in a cage,
I can at last get back to nature.
Alt.: This shuttered house, free of the dust of the world,
its empty rooms full of time and quiet.
An alternative translation:
From the first, I was unsuited to society,
but I had a natural love of hills and valleys.
Still, I fell into the snare of the world--
one little slip and half my life was gone.
Birds in cages love their old forests.
Fish in ponds still miss their home waters.
Clearing the south field at the edge of the wild,
still just a rustic, I've returned to my farm.
My two or three acres surround the house,
its thatched roof over eight or nine rooms.
Elm and willow overhang the back eaves.
Peach and plum lead away from the front hall.
A distant village is faint in the haze.
Thin smoke curls from unseen huts.
A dog barks from deep in the lane.
A cock crows in the mulberry tree.
This shuttered house, free of the dust of the world,
its empty rooms full of time and quiet.
After so long, long in a cage,
I can at last get back to nature.
Since I wrote my first version of this poem, I've come upon more information about it has made me question of the accuracy of some aspects of the translation. Most particularly, I've read Arthur Sze's commentary on the piece in Into English, edited by Martha Collins and Kevin Prufer .
DRINKING WINE #5
Though I've made my house among men,
there is no noise of horse and cart.
You may wonder how this can be--
as mind's detached, place is distant.
Picking mums at the eastern hedge,
catching sight of the southern hills.
The mountain air, fine in the fading day.
The returning birds, flying together.
In all of this, there is truth and meaning,
the words for which I forget as they form.
--Tao Qian
WANG WEI
RETURNING TO MOUNT SONG
Trees flanking the clear stream.
My cart horse ambling on.
Flowing water knows how I feel.
Evening birds come home with me.
Empty town above the old ferry.
Setting sun filling the autumn hills.
Far away from the outside world,
returned to the foot of the mountain.
--Wang Wei
Alt: back home at the foot of the mountain.
Tai Yi, the Central Peak of Zhongnan Mountain
Zhongnan near the imperial city:
height upon height right down to the sea.
Look back at white clouds, they're all one.
Enter the green haze, it's all gone.
From the middle peak, the land shapes change.
Sun and shade no valley dapple the same.
Hoping for a human place for the night,
call to that woodsman across the water.
Red berries of the longing tree grow there in the south.
Come the spring, the branches bush out and fill with fruit.
I hope, friend, that you will pick more and more and more
of what is the simple for this illness of ours.
王維
相思
紅(Red)豆(Bean)生(Born/Grow)南(South)國(Country)，
春(Spring)來(Come)發(Produce)幾(How Many)枝(Branch)。
願(Wish)君(You)多(Much)采(Pluck)擷(Pick)，
此(This)物(Item/Thing)最(Most)相(To)思(Think)。
相思: (combination of these two character means Lovesickness)
--word for word translation by Laijon Liu
White stones stick up from Bramble Brook.
Red leaves sparse against a cold sky.
No rain now on the mountain path.
My clothes wet from the high green brush.
--Wang Wei
PASSING THE TEMPLE OF TEEMING FRAGRANCE
The Temple of Teeming Fragrance
measureless miles in summit clouds.
Ancient forest, a pathless way.
Deep mountains, directionless bell.
Spring water over jagged rocks.
Yellow sun on cool green pines.
Twilight, winding pool. Quiet sitting
uncoils the poison dragon of the heart.
--Wang Wei, my tr.
Monks make incense at the Temple of Teeming Fragrance.
DEER FENCE
Empty Mountain.
Seeing no one.
Hearing someone's
echoing voice.
The late day sun
enters again
the deep forest,
shining once more
on the green moss.
Seeing no one.
Hearing someone's
echoing voice.
The late day sun
enters again
the deep forest,
shining once more
on the green moss.
In my old age, I want only peace.
The ten thousand things are not my concern.
I've no plan for the rest of my life
but to come back to this, my ancient woods.
Piney wind blows my girdle open.
Mountain moon lights upon the lute I play.
So where's the warp and weft of the world?
Fishermen's songs come far up the inlet.
--Wang Wei, my tr.
Surely you can say,
having come from my village,
if the winter plum
has already blossomed there
by the filigreed window.
SITTING ALONE ON AN AUTUMN NIGHT
Alone, grieving over my graying hair.
In the empty hall, nearly nine o'clock.
Mountain fruit fall in heavy rain.
Grasshoppers sing in my lamplight.
Hair gone white can never go back.
Nothing can change to yellow gold.
Want to cast off age and illness?
You need to study not being born.
Some translators have "no rebirth" in the last line for what is most literally "no-birth." But I think that with Wang Wei's Buddhism being the Dao-tinged Buddhism of Zen, he wouldn't have been so concerned with reincarnation. Perhaps the the reference would have been more to the illusion of self, of ego, of something that came into being at a certain time and persisted in its essence all through one's life. To not hang on to that illusion.
AUTUMN EVENING, MOUNTAIN LODGE
Empty mountain, just after rain.
Evening air, the air of autumn.
The bright moon shines through the trees.
A clear spring flows over stones.
Bamboo rustles, washergirls return.
Lotus leaves sway, fishing boats glide by.
Sweet grass of spring withers as it will.
Noble friends, of course we should stay!
Empty mountain, just after rain.
Evening air, the air of autumn.
The bright moon shines through the trees.
A clear spring flows over stones.
Bamboo rustles, washergirls return.
Lotus leaves sway, fishing boats glide by.
Sweet grass of spring withers as it will.
Noble friends, of course we should stay!
Wang Wei was a painter as well.
LI BAI
TO MENG HAORAN
I love you Meng Fuzi, Master Meng,
free spirit, famous under heaven.
In rosy youth, you spurned cap and carriage.
With snowy head, you lie among clouds and pines,
drunk beneath the moon, remaining the sage,
addled among flowers, serving no lord.
At the foot of your unscaleable heights,
I bow in gathering mountain fragrance.
Blue mountains to the north of town.
White water to the east of town.
We stop here for a last goodbye:
Thistledown flies a thousand li.
Now you must be a floating cloud,
and your old friend, the setting sun.
Waving, each goes his separate way.
Parting horses nicker and neigh.
送友人
青山橫北郭， 白水遶東城。此地一為別， 孤蓬萬里征。浮雲游子意， 落日故人情。揮手自茲去， 蕭蕭班馬鳴。
As flowers bloom and leaves unfold,
my friend sets out, west for Guanling.
His solitary sail recedes,
vanishing where river meets sky.
Two versions of "Jade Stairs"
Resentment on the Jade Stairs
Midnight on the stairs of jade,
white dew soaks her silken hose.
Draw down then the crystal shade:
fall's moon glitters in its gems.
Stood Up on the Jade Stairs
Midnight on the stairs of jade,
white dew soaked your silken hem.
Draw down then the crystal shade:
moonlight glitters in its gems.
High Summer
Lazing in the mountain wood,
waving a white feather fan,
I get up, open my clothes,
hang my headband on a rock.
Green pine wind plays through my hair.
Wine with the Mountain Hermit
We drink amid the mountain flowers.
A cup, one more, and then another.
I'm in a stupor, you stagger off.
Come back with your lute, when you can.
Alone in My Cups
Drinking wine, unaware
of nightfall. Fallen flowers
fill the folds of my clothes.
Getting up and walking
to the moonlit river,
where no birds and few men
remain.
SPRING NIGHT: A FLUTE IN LOYANG
From which house, fleeting, invisible notes
mingling with the wind and fillng the city?
Hearing that tune, A Willow Twig for Parting,
who could not dwell on thoughts of home?
TO MENG HAORAN
I love you Meng Fuzi, Master Meng,
free spirit, famous under heaven.
In rosy youth, you spurned cap and carriage.
With snowy head, you lie among clouds and pines,
drunk beneath the moon, remaining the sage,
addled among flowers, serving no lord.
At the foot of your unscaleable heights.
I bow in gathering mountain fragrance.
DU FU
THOUGHTS OF THE NIGHT TRAVELLER
Spring Prospect
Moonlit Night
On the River I Saw the Water Surging like the Ocean: A Sketchy Account
FACING SNOW
Battle cries, many new ghosts.
Old, alone--worry and grief.
Ragged clouds low in the dusk.
Snow swirls around and around.
Ladle and cup--green wine gone.
Dying embers--stove still red.
I sit, no news from anywhere,
my books blank with my sorrow.
DU FU
THOUGHTS OF THE NIGHT TRAVELLER
Slender grass in the shore breeze.
Tall mast on a lonely boat.
Stars sink over spreading fields.
The moon rides on the river.
Too old and sick for office--
and will scribblings make my name?
Drifting, drifting, what am I?
One gull between earth and sky.
Spring Prospect
The nation in ruin,
mountains and rivers remain.
The city in spring,
deep in grass and trees.
Lost in wretched times,
weeping over flowers.
Sunk in loneliness,
startling at birdsong.
Beacon fires,
burning for three months.
Family letters,
worth thousands in gold
I've pulled so at my white hair
that my hatpin barely holds.
Alt: And I've pulled at my white hair
till my hatpin barely holds.
Pulling so at my white hair
that my hatpin barely holds.
Alt: And I've pulled at my white hair
till my hatpin barely holds.
Pulling so at my white hair
that my hatpin barely holds.
Moonlit Night
Just now, alone in our room,
you gaze at the Fuzhou moon.
Our children--I ache for them
from far away--they don't see
why you brood upon Changan.
Fragrant fog scents your gathered hair.
Lustrous moon chills your slender arms.
When, between the gauzy curtains,
will we lean together again,
these tears dried on our faces,
their traces limned in moonlight?
On the River I Saw the Water Surging like the Ocean: A Sketchy Account
I have always been a little off,
so driven by love of well-made verse,
pursuing that word of startling rightness,
I'd sooner die than rest.
In my reckless old age,
my words and I overwhelm each other.
So you needn't fear, birds and flowers,
for the secrets of your spring.
Just now, I've put in a pier
to dangle a fishing line from.
Before, I was angling from an anchored raft
in place of a boat.
Who could I get with the mind of a master
like Tao or Xie
to help out with my writing
and wander the nearby world with me?
Alt: In place of a boat, I had been angling from an anchored raft
Alt: In place of a boat, I had been angling from an anchored raft
FACING SNOW
Battle cries, many new ghosts.
Old, alone--worry and grief.
Ragged clouds low in the dusk.
Snow swirls around and around.
Ladle and cup--green wine gone.
Dying embers--stove still red.
I sit, no news from anywhere,
my books blank with my sorrow.
SIKONG SHU
ANCIENT SPIRIT
Old men there on the River Han,
stiff corpses at the river's mouth,
their white hair wet with yellow mud.
Black ravens come for what remains.
Their cunning we may now forget.
Their selves--or souls--have come to what?
Wind blows, the fishing line snaps,
darting fish are hard to catch.
Islands are bright with white water.
Reeds crowding onto the steep bank
retain a trace of the small boat
now tied at the long river's edge.
Towering pines, their dried-up branches
hold up ropey hanging vines.
Must we depend on things like this?
Living and dead--can they know each other?
Survey the world today and see
everywhere all are like you.
A general dies in a great siege.
The Han soldiers still press forward,
a hundred horses on one bit,
ten thousand wheels on one axle.
Are you mainly name or mainly flesh?
Gentlemen, think well on this.
--my tr.
Alt: hold up raggedy green ropes.
A RIVER VILLAGE MOMENT
Back home from fishing, not tying up the boat,
sleeping sound in the light of the falling moon:
Should the night wind blow the boat away, away's
as far as the reeds of the nearby shallows.
PARTING WITH HAN SHEN AT SUN CLOUD INN
Old men long separated by rivers and seas,
unable to cross mountains and plains between us.
Suddenly meeting here, as if in a dream,
grieving over the years, asking how they’d passed.
A single lamp shining into cold rain.
A smokey mist rising from dense bamboo.
More and more dreading the bright coming morning,
we share the precious wine of parting again.
GOODBYE TO A FRIEND RETURNING NORTH AFTER THE REBELLION
Fleeing chaos, we came south together.
Order restored, you return north alone
now that our hair's gone gray in an alien land.
To see the green hills from our ruined village
you will sleep in mountain passes under cold stars,
see the morning moon over broken battlements.
Everywhere, winter birds and withered grass.
All along, all along, sorrow your companion.
司空曙
|
賊平後送人北歸
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世亂同南去，
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時清獨北還。
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他鄉生白髮，
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舊國見青山。
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曉月過殘壘，
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繁星宿故關。
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寒禽與衰草，
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處處伴愁顏。
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Sī Kōng Shǔ
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Zéi píng hòu sòng rén běi guī
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Shì luàn tóng nán qù，
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Shí qīng dú běi huán。
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Tā xiāng shēng bái fā，
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Jiù guó jiàn qīng shān。
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Xiǎo yuè guò cán lěi，
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Fán xīng sù gù guān。
|
Hán qín yǔ shuāi cǎo，
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Chǔ chǔ bàn chóu yán。
|
LI SHANGYIN
The Cicada
In the first place,
however refined you are
and able to live on wind and dew,
they will never satisfy your hunger.
So why keep up your bitter cry?
By the fifth hour
your voice is weak and hoarse
in the green, indifferent tree.
I'm just a minor functionary,
a drifting twig.
And the old fields at home
lie wasted and full of weeds.
So thank you for reminding me
that my family has a long history
of pure character.
Thoughts in the Cold
My guests have all gone,
the river rises to my doorstep,
cicadas cease whirring,
branches fill with dew:
a time when you fill my heart,
the time that passes while I stand
still beneath the Big Dipper,
as distant as spring.
Here beyond the edge
of your Nanjing sky
no messenger comes.
I am left with only
my dreams to divine
if you've found a new friend.
Your coming was an empty promise.
Your going was without a trace.
At the fifth bell,
moonlight slanted across the tower
as I wakened from despairing dreams,
my cries not calling you back.
These pale words, this hasty letter,
written before the ink could thicken.
One candle lights half the quilt
with the kingfisher in a golden cage.
A faint scent of musk
lingers on the embroidered lotus curtain.
Young Master Liu
raged at the distance to the faerie hill.
But you are ten thousand mountains,
ten thousand ranges farther.
Sighs of the east wind bringing fine rain.
Faint thunder from beyond the lotus pond.
Incense seeps through the jaw of the golden toad lock.
Water comes up on the silk of the jade tiger winch.
Jia's daughter peeped through the screen at Han the young clerk.
Princess Mi left her pillow for the poet prince of Wei.
Spring heart, don't contend with flowers for opening.
One inch of burning passion makes one inch of ash.
A few comments on interpretation: Some say the "faint thunder" should be taken as the sound of carriage wheels--a lover leaving or not stopping. Possible, but I don't see any evidence in the text for it. The lock is an ornamental one that latches by closing the toad's mouth. The jade tiger is a decoration on a pulley or winch over a well. For clarity, I was going to go with "rope" rather than "silk," but I read that "silk" in conjunction with the "incense" of the preceding line is suggestive of sex or romance. And then the 5th and 6th lines each refer to a story of illicit love. The image in the last line is probably of an incense stick that does not diminish in length as the incense burns away.
Phoenix tails, folds of fragrant silk.
Green canopy, a late night tryst.
Her fan hides the moon, but not her shame.
A carriage thunders off, closed to words.
Silence and emptiness, gold embers, dark ashes.
Nothing left but the red pomegranate wine.
A piebald horse still tied to a hanging willow.
And from where in the southwest may a sweet breeze blow?
Meeting is hard and parting is harder.
The east wind slackens and flowers wither.
The spring silk worm spins silk till it dies.
The wax candle sheds tears till it'd ash.
Morning mirror, fretting over disordered hair.
Midnight chanting, not feeling the cold.
Penglai, the faerie mountain, is somewhere near.
Bluebird, would you spy it out for me?
Alt: The spring silk worm spins till it dies.
The wax candle weeps till it's ash.
Penglai, her faerie mountain, can't be far.
Miss No Worries' rooms, hung with heavy curtains.
Lying in her bed through the long, quiet night.
Sleeping with the Goddess, that's just a dream.
Courting the little maiden, that's not me either.
Wind and waves flatten the water chestnut stems.
Moon and dew sweeten scentless cassia leaves.
Love, be it little but lovesickness,
I'm mad for its fevered clarity.
Under last night's stars, among last night's winds,
west painted chamber, East Cassia Hall.
Bodies have no brightly flashing phoenix wings to fly together.
Hearts have a magic tie like the single line down a rhino horn.
At the table, playing pass the hook, drinking warm spring wine.
Split into teams, guessing which hand, all red in candlelight.
And then came the summons to duty of rolling drums.
My horse and I, chaff blowing toward the Orchid Terrace.
In my reading, lines one and two and five through eight carry the narrative of a gathering of friends drinking and playing party games the previous night and then of Li's being called away to his government duties in the Orchid Terrace where his office was located. His lover was presumably in the group of friends he had to leave. It is common in lushi, eight-line regulated verse, for one or both of the middle two couplets to say something philosophical or symbolic rather than give details of the specific scene or event that the poem is about. That is the function here of the second couplet, lines three and four. According to L.C. Wang, there is supposedly an unbroken line from tip to base on a rhinoceras horn that symbolizes an unbreakable bond between distant lovers.
In the heading for this post I have "untitled" in quotes because the poems actually do have titles. Each is titled "No Title."
BAI JUYI
A POEM OF THE EVENING RIVER
A ray of late sun lies across the water.
Half the emerald river is ruby red.
On this third night of the ninth month
dewdrops are pearls, the moon a bow.
SAYING GOODBYE ON THE PLAIN OF ANCIENT RUINS
Grasses growing lush on the plain
year after year wither and flourish.
No wildfire can consume them all.
In winds of spring they grow again.
Their bright green reaches the far ruined wall.
Their fragrance flows over the ancient road.
Once again we say goodbye here,
a place lush with feelings of parting.
CHANG JIAN
A BUDDHIST RETREAT BEHIND BROKEN MOUNTAIN TEMPLE
Clear, quiet dawn enters the old temple.
Early sun brightens the forest heights.
Crooked path comes to a secluded space.
A monk's cottage deep in flowers and trees.
Light through the mountains plays over bird flight.
A deep pool mirrors both sky and heart.
Ten thousand sounds of nature are suffused
with the one tone of the temple bell.
--Chang Jian
Alt: Ten thousand sounds of nature are resolved
in the one tone of the temple bell.
Ancient Spirit
Old men there on the River Han,
stiff corpses at the river's mouth,
their white hair wet with yellow mud.
Black ravens come for what remains.
Their cunning we may now forget.
Their selves--or souls--have come to what?
Wind blows, the fishing line snaps,
darting fish are hard to catch.
Islands are bright with white water.
Reeds crowding onto the steep bank
retain a trace of the small boat
now tied at the long river's edge.
Towering pines, their dried-up branches
hold up ropey hanging vines.
Must we depend on things like this?
Living and dead--can they know each other?
Survey the world today and see
everywhere all are like you.
A general dies in a great siege.
The Han soldiers still press forward,
a hundred horses on one bit,
ten thousand wheels on one axle.
Are you mainly name or mainly flesh?
Gentlemen, think well on this.
LIN BU
In the Hills, a Plum Tree Flowers in a Small Garden
Blossoms all have shaken down, and alone
it casts a warm beauty over the garden,
whose slender shadows lie on shallow ponds.
A faint fragrance drifts under a dun moon.
Snowbirds, landing, look again, to see
what dusty butterflies would faint to know.
Lucky me, making friends with whispered verse—
who needs golden goblets or rhythm sticks?
CHANG FANGSHEN
Sailing into South Lake
South Lake is the sum of three rivers.
Mount Lu is the master of all hills.
White sand cleans the river course.
Green pines color the crag heads.
When did the water begin to flow?
When did the mountain begin to be?
Human fate is ever changing.
These forms are alone enduring.
In all the near and far of the cosmos,
present becomes past; this order lasts.
ZHANG JI
LI DUAN
PLAYING THE ZHENG FOR GENERAL ZHOU
Lost, a whole army,
before the gates of a city,
the year before last
fighting the Yuezhi.
Lost, the torn, scattered tents,
with no one to collect them.
There were only the tattered banners
on horses straggling back.
Lost, any news of you,
along the way from Tibet.
What offerings can I make
if your fate is unknown?
Lost, you and I to each other,
whether or not you still live.
I offer these tears
from far, far away.
LI DUAN
PLAYING THE ZHENG FOR GENERAL ZHOU
While playing the zheng
with millet-gold posts,
her fair hands moving
over the jade frame,
hoping that Zhou Yu
will turn and look,
every so often
she plucks the wrong note.
--Li Duan
DU MU
THE LATE SHEN XIAXIAN
To your clear voice, who could echo in chorus or answer in verse?
Here on grassy paths gone to moss and weeds, if sought, you are not found.
Dreaming, from dusk into night, at the foot of Little Fu Mountain.
Water a circlet of jade; moon, a silver silk panel over the heart.
YUAN ZHEN
SUMMER PALACE
Faded old travel palace.
Solitary red flowers.
Idle gray-haired ladies speak
of Emperor Li Long Ji.
ZU YOUNG
ON SEEING THE SNOW-PEAK OF ZHONGNAN MOUNTAIN
Beautiful, the north face of Zhongnan's peak,
piled-up snow above the floating clouds,
bright blue sky shining through the tree tops.
The city below colder with sunset.
WANG ZHIHUAN
DU MU
THE LATE SHEN XIAXIAN
To your clear voice, who could echo in chorus or answer in verse?
Here on grassy paths gone to moss and weeds, if sought, you are not found.
Dreaming, from dusk into night, at the foot of Little Fu Mountain.
Water a circlet of jade; moon, a silver silk panel over the heart.
DRINKING ALONE
Wind blows snow straight across the window.
Curl around the stove, open the wine,
and, as a fishing boat in the rain,
Sail asleep down the autumn river.
--Du Mu
ON THE QINHUAI RIVER
With moonlight on sand and mist on cold water,
I tie up by a tavern on the river.
I hear a girl sing, with nothing of his grief,
the captive king's "Blossom of the Inner Court."
YUAN ZHEN
SUMMER PALACE
Faded old travel palace.
Solitary red flowers.
Idle gray-haired ladies speak
of Emperor Li Long Ji.
ZU YOUNG
ON SEEING THE SNOW-PEAK OF ZHONGNAN MOUNTAIN
Beautiful, the north face of Zhongnan's peak,
piled-up snow above the floating clouds,
bright blue sky shining through the tree tops.
The city below colder with sunset.
WANG ZHIHUAN
Climbing Stork Tower
White sun sets against the mountains.
Yellow River flows to the sea.
To look out for a thousand miles,
you should go up one more story.
QIAN QI
LIU CHANGQING
LIU YUXI
QIAN QI
TO A JAPANESE MONK RETURNING HOME
Destined to come seeking the source in China.
Your voyage here was like a dream of distance,
floating between heaven and the vast green sea.
Now, the vessel goes lightly that carries the Way.
Water and moon are solitary as your Zen.
Fish and dragons absorb the sound of your chanting.
The single lamp of your compassion, its light
returns to watchers at the heart of the world.
LIU CHANGQING
TO SOUTH CREEK SEEKING DAO MAN CHANG IN HIS SECRET PLACE
All along the single path,
footprints in strawberry moss.
White clouds over quiet islands.
Spring grass latching the idle gate.
After rain, the look of the pines.
Up the mountain, the river’s source.
Sitting Zen in flowers by the creek.
Face to face, I forget what to say.
LIU YUXI
Grasses grow rank around Red Bird Bridge.
Sun sets in the street of mansions.
Swallows from peeling painted eaves
swoop across the doorways of common folk.
