rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,
rejectomorph
flying_blind

Dim

The dimmest of mornings ends a night rarely still. Rain and more rain drips and drums, and the gray day arrives un-greeted by any sound of birds-- not even the harsh caws of crows. Wet has stripped the mulberry of most of its remaining yellow leaves which now lie strewn across the sodden lawn. Once the sun returns it will reach my window almost unfiltered each afternoon. I suddenly realize that little more than a week remains until the winter solstice. Time flies when you're having weather.



Sunday Verse


Planting Bamboos


by Po Chu-i (A.D. 806)


Unrewarded, my will to serve the State;
At my closed door autumn grasses grow.
What could I do to ease a rustic heart?
I planted bamboos, more than a hundred shoots.
When I see their beauty, as they grow by the stream-side,
I feel again as though I lived in the hills,
And many a time on public holidays
Round their railing I walk until night comes.
Do not say that their roots are still weak,
Do not say that their shade is still small;
Already I feel that both in garden and house
Day by day a fresher air moves.
But most I love, lying near the window-side,
To hear in their branches the sound of the autumn-wind.

-translated by Arthur Waley
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