rejectomorph (flying_blind) wrote,

Deep Blue

An hour before dawn, the trees are ink brushed on cerulean sky which is washed here and there with pale patches of lingering clouds. The moon is unobscured, though, and the slight inward curve of its leading edge seems this morning a harbinger of the season's waning. May's arrival means that spring is almost half gone, and the sultry days of summer approach. I breathe deep the last of night's chill and listen to the songs of the first birds. This dim time is the day's best, and is as fleet as the robins who now soar to branches about to be revealed as green. There is subtlety in the lack of detail, and it is soon to be lost. I want to remember the scene as it is, and carry it with me into sleep.

Sunday Verse

Madly Singing in the Mountains


There is no one among men that has not a special failing:
And my failing consists in writing verses.
I have broken away from the thousand ties of life:
But this infirmity still remains behind.
Each time that I look at a fine landscape:
Each time that I meet a loved friend,
I raise my voice and recite a stanza of poetry
And am glad as though a God had crossed my path.
Ever since the day I was banished to Hsun-yang
Half my time I have lived among the hills.
And often, when I have finished a new poem,
Alone I climb the road to the Eastern Rock.
I lean my body on the banks of white stone:
I pull down with my hands a green cassia branch.
My mad singing startles the valleys and hills:
The apes and birds all come to peep.
Fearing to become a laughing-stock to the world,
I choose a place that is unfrequented by men.

translated by Arthur Waley

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