Lichen

 by Brett Rutherford

     after Li Yu, Poem 34

Save sorrow for what is gone forever,
a wise one advises me. Creature
of habit that I am, everything
here depresses me. The sight
of Nature ought to soothe and heal,
but Grief is my looking-glass.

The humble lichen,
     so fond of rocks
     and branches,
ascends the neglected
     stairs as well.
I do not disturb
     its melancholy advance.

The curtain, edged
     with pearls, sways
     lazily, thin barricade
against the autumn breeze.

No one strides in
    with orders or requests,
pushing aside the cloth,
nor do soft steps
     of timid feet pause
and await my summoning.

I had a Golden Saber once;
like me and my pride,
it is someone’s trophy now.

I had a mansion of jade,
a palace of dark
     chalcedony,
pavilions too numerous
     to catalog.
Looted and desolate,
they cast long shadows
upon the Qinhuai River.

Above the headless flowers
     killed by frost,
the moon blazons
     in the transparent sky.