January 07th, 2024

The moon, spat from a mountain’s broken mouth,
hangs remotely over my firewood gate.
Sudden moonlight ties unsteady images to whiteness,
in cold dew the earth starts to breathe.
An autumn brook plashes in a still ravine
as blue mist breaks over deep rocks.
Purity flows into my dark dream
while cracked shapes hug the empty peaks.
Standing by my window over the pine river,
drowsy in the morning, I cannot think.

Wang Wei (699-759)