Poetry

                       Standing            between good and evil,      between the two frozen poles,                        at last            between man and man,                  and, looking hard,      I simply cannot understand how in the world life can make both ends meet.

     There are two things you have      to worry about about her:      she opens up for you      and she closes up on you,      but you shouldn't worry      too much about it because      this is the way she is      and this is the way you are: You just shouldn't mention her name. She loves you in her…

All withers in the autumn air: wine quickly wears off: Bleak and dismal, it's always      like feelings felt at parting. At dusk, I lean on a pillar:      I don't go home; My heart breaks at the patter of wind and rain      on the green lotus.

Orioles bubble in the shade of green sophora, secluded courtyard empty this spring day noon;                  painted curtain hangs,                  golden phoenixes dance, solitary, but the embroidered screen, one stick of incense.                  Clouds in the azure sky                  have no fixed home;      in vain my dreaming soul comes and goes;…

What if time came to a stop? Surely the end would be struck dumb. Up on the hill the house where you were born is waiting for you to build it again. How and with what — bricks, wasn't it? The chimney's all you can remember: smoke vanishing in spirals like the string of a…

Her soul has returned to the deep void,      her spirit returned to mist: She stayed among mortal men      for only eighteen years. Yesterday, I gave away her skirts      and sashes to monks, My heart broke: they still were tied      to the strings of her lute.

If I flash, you'll appear. Backs turned from the present, how can they hope to greet you? You're just like me, predicted for the very place we'll miss each other. Like lightning and thunder— though we come as one, we're revealed as two.

in times of rebellion, the seasons perversely scurry by; on cloudy days, the sun is quick to set. speechless, I scratch my white head and lean, grief-stricken, on the eastern gate.