Maybe the first lines constrain the last;
Maybe ends insist on openings;
Maybe some truths escape all words;
Maybe dulcet lines tell no truths.
One may need to keep separated --
Beauty and truth -- to avoid wounds.
Inspect and haggle over each word --
Distinctions maybe finer than a hair;
Weigh each edit upon a scale;
Ensure each cut serves its purpose.
Original poem in Simplified Chinese:
或仰逼于先条，或俯侵于后章。
或辞害而理比，或言顺而义妨。
离之则双美， 合之则两伤。
考殿最于锱铢，定去留于毫芒。
苟铨衡之所裁，固应绳其必当。
If “legacy” is defined as something left behind that serves to keep one’s memory alive, then I don’t. I think that goal is futile, illusory, and a bit narcissistic. Even those who are “remembered” long after their deaths are not truly remembered. For example, the Alexander the Great who is remembered to this day likely bears little resemblance to the one who was flesh and blood. What we remember are products of imagination. [Which is fine, but then why tie them to people who lived as opposed to purely fictional ones?]
If I could leave behind some configuration of knowledge of the art of human living that would be helpful to anyone (without it being tied to my identity or memory) that would be a fine thing.
high mountains:
sunrise hits snowcaps only;
in darkness & don't know it.
An unfamiliar horse --
Saddled but riderless --
Cautiously ambles
Into the village.
Its saddle, bags, and coat
Spattered in black --
Really, rust-red on brown.
The villagers want nothing
To do with it,
But each sneaks it food
And lets it water at their
Tank.
I heard thee laugh,
And in this merriment
I defined the measure of my pain;
I knew that I was alone,
Alone with love,
Poor shivering love,
And he, little sprite,
Came to watch with me,
And at midnight
We were like two creatures by a dead camp-fire.
How do you feel about cold weather?
In the abstract, sitting here in the tropics, I’m fond of the idea of winter. When I’m in cold weather, I’d prefer not to be.
Tiger Riding for Beginners 