by Chiao Meng*
Calamity infecting a child is natural:
Blossoms mostly fail.
Still, I gather,
Ruins of the heart, a spent old man,
Cradling love’s debris in endless night.
What can be said once sound dies away?
And once hope’s dead,
*Translation by David Hinton.
(This is a portion of the poem's eighth stanza. To read the first stanza, please go here. To read the fourth stanza, please go here.)
(Photo by ganast via Flickr, using a Creative Commons License; the photo was discovered using everystockphoto.com.)
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