by Brett Rutherford
after Li Yu, Poem 24
Weep, China!
The girl who
played the flute
among the trees,
and charmed
an Emperor, is
gone.
The Spring light comes seeking her
in the royal
garden,
clouds of sweet pollen, and petals
of gold, cascade
in waves,
seeking her out, and finding
only a funeral.
Winds from the East
that lifted me once
now make me
stoop,
unbearable now the fragrance
it carries.
I watch the moon pass
the cut and curve of the jade window;
waning,
diminished, sliced.
Will I come to see the days
of my misery outnumbering
the days I was allotted joy?
(Who should live so long?)
Beyond the balcony a willow
droops with its
own weight
of leaf and
branch to water,
expecting to find a companion —
hopes dashed, it only sees
itself reflected.
No wonder
we say the splendid tree weeps.
Dressed in mourning,
one scarcely has
time for love.
Each time I meet
the one who waits
for me,
it is a short as a dream.
Haste wounds us.
We part. I am sure
there are certain words she hopes for
that I am not prepared to say,
not with so fresh a ghost
listening.
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