
a bloom falls to earth;
lit up by the morning sun,
it glows… for a time.

a bloom falls to earth;
lit up by the morning sun,
it glows… for a time.


the mountain fog
cannot keep the secrets
of the bare tree.
Every time I have started for the Yellow Flower River,
I have gone down the Blue-Green Stream,
Following the hills, making ten thousand turnings.
We go along rapidly, but advance scarcely one hundred li.
We are in the midst of a noise of water,
Of the confused and mingled sounds of water broken by stones,
And in the deep darkness of pine-trees.
Rocked, rocked,
Moving on and on,
We float past water-chestnuts
Into a still clearness reflecting reeds and rushes.
My heart is clean and white as silk;
it has already achieved Peace;
It is smooth as the placid river.
I long to stay here, curled up on the rocks,
Dropping my fish-line forever.
NOTE: This version was translated by Florence Ayscough and adapted by Amy Lowell in the book: Fir-Flower Tablets (1921) New York: Houghton Mifflin, p. 123

They say that each and every single fly
Has five thousand lenses in each eye:
A three-sixty view from toes to rump,
And thus I become the fly-swatting chump.

water parts,
rounding a boulder,
then is reunited.