by Brett Rutherford
from the Chinese of Li Yü, “Wang Kian Nan” (Poem 3)
When, of an afternoon, I nap
before my tea at four o’clock,
I dream of forests further south
where Fall lights up the hills;
of yellow, brown bands a thousand miles
long, a vast brush-stroke across
the rivers and mountain gorges;
of all the red of maples touched by frost.
Night falls.
Among the reeds, a boat,
abandoned, sits idle,
with drooping sail,
and from above,
a figure barely seen
lifts up his flute
on a moon-crowned terrace,
a song for no one
in particular.
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