December 30^th, 2021

You brush the dust away and
Read sutras on old bamboo slips,
Waiting for the moon’s company
To play the singing lute.
In Peach Tree Spring people
Have never heard a Han name.
Certain pines are Qing Dynasty officials.
Few people return to this empty ravine.
The sunless face of the blue mountain is cold.
I envy you the place where you are perched,
Watching a white cloud from far away.