Short Poems

May all your tears, wanderer,
fall into the Yangtze at its western source.
Then the river will flow to the east,
bringing them here to my home.

A thousand miles of pure river water,
far, far, the pavilion for seeing off guests.
Is this the place where soldiers died for their country?
The local gods have long since lost their power.
In rain can be heard the sound of weeping;
the mountains and streams still smell of blood.
This lonely minister has no more tears to weep:
full of grief, he faces a dimming lamp.

I sit on horseback at Twin Bridges,
the sun about to set.
Dust and sand blow like fog, hiding my baggage carts.
From here, my tracks will be lost in Chiang-nan,
south of the Yangtze River,
and I'll only see green mountains, never a grain of sand!

For three years I sadly listened
to the bells of Eternal Joy Palace—
my soul in dream would flit about to the east of Five Lakes.
Now, suddenly, I find myself here in this little boat:
I open my eyes, but still feel I'm dreaming that old dream!

Floating clouds and worldly affairs:
both are insubstantial.
Once out of the city gates,
all my worries cease.
There are only my feelings for friends left behind
which will not go away:
along the southern bank of Twin Canals
I keep looking back.

In politics if thou would'st mix,
And mean thy fortunes be;
Bear this in mind, be deaf and blind,
Let great folks hear and see.

So fleeting,
that dream of a night
we spent together—
and when I doze off it seems
more insubstantial than ever

Pushing home at dawn
through autumn fields of bamboo grass,
my sleeve is wet—
wetter still on those nights
when I return without seeing you

Neither waking or sleeping,
I saw the night out,
and now spend
all day in thought,
staring at these long spring rains

Here on the hill where my wife and I live,
don't touch the magnolia,
it will look better if you don't, look better faster!