Sometimes we sit in quiet rooms,
the music playing in our heads,
as night is falling moonless
on the windowpane.
Sometimes we are desertlands inside
until the rains comes softly falling
and grace comes tumbling down
like a tress of woman's hair.
How can I be so stuck inside my head
when I would surely rather be with you?
And why do I waste my time each day
when I would rather be with you?
Like paper in the windy gust, our moments flutter by;
we never know when nornish hands have set our fates to die.
It matters not one whit at all if you should rage or cry.
It comes for all, without a fail, that final shuddered sigh.
Like paper that is burning, all our moments waste away;
no matter what you do or hope, there is a final day,
and try to hold it tightly or ignore it as you may,
the strands of every thread of life will one day start to fray.
Or catch the planet in your hand and stop its onward roll,
or capture death and hold it fast in dungeon black as coal,
or swallow all the gods alive, devour titans whole,
or hold in caterpillar-form the splendor of your soul.
Du Fu's Spring View
empire is fallen
mountains and rivers stand
city is in spring
thick with grass and tree
one feels the time
flowers drop tears
distressed by distance
birds alarm the heart
beacons are aflame
nonstop for three months
letter from home
costs ten thousand gold
my hair is age-white
scratched ever shorter
the whole thing soon
will not hold a hairpin