"Apricots Died Young"

(Today, a reprinted poem for your consideration.)

by Chiao Meng

Don't fondle these pearls.

O hands of ice,

Fondle pearls and they're quick to fly.

And don't cut spring short, sudden frost.

Cut spring short and that blaze of beauty's lost.

Still nipples, tiny blossoms fall in tatters,

Tinged pure as a child's robes long ago.

I gather them, never filling my hands,

And at dusk, grief empty, return home.

(Translation by David Hinton.)

(Photo from recursion_see_recursion of the UK from Flickr, using a Creative Commons license.)

poetry
grief
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