March 09th, 2018
Liu Tsung-yuan (773-819)
Waking to the sound of heavy dew falling,
I open the door, gaze past the west garden
to a cold moon rising over eastern ridges,
scattered bamboo, roots gone clear.
Distance clarifies a waterfall into silence,
Now and then, a mountain bird calls out.
I lean on a column, stay till dawn in these
isolate depths of quiet: no words, no words.