I remember rooms that have had their part
In the steady slowing down of the heart.
The room in Paris, the room at Geneva,
The little damp room with the seaweed smell,
And that ceaseless maddening sound of the tide --
Rooms where for good or for ill -- things died.
But there is the room where we (two) lie dead,
Though every morning we seem to wake and might just as well seem to sleep again
As we shall somewhere in the other quieter, dustier bed
Out there in the sun -- in the rain.
My first computer was my brain interfaced with a No. 2 pencil. Yes, I date that far back in the technology stream.
Butterfly shows off
its luminous blue wings
to hot pink flowers.
庭院深深：最美的宋詞英譯新詮 by 吳俁陽（賞析）
A small arc of sun
stands above the trees
Like the tufts of hair
that give away the
hiding boy who can’t
judge hairdo height.
The next time I turn around,
I see Sun -- fully out and
stalking up behind me,
looming larger.
Villain shows his indiscretion,
Villain's partner makes confession.
Juvenile, with golden tresses,
Finds her pa and dons long dresses.
Scapegrace comes home money-laden,
Hero comforts tearful maiden,
Soubrette marries loyal chappie,
Villain skips, and all are happy.
Infinite golden Buddhas
stretch along the path.
Each step occurs
in the presence of one
and the presence of all
and the presence of none --
simultaneously.
white silk-cotton tree,
sinuously sprawling —-
chaining earth to sky.
Smoke and Ashes: A Writer’s Journey through Opium’s Hidden Histories by Amitav Ghosh
