Monday, May 30, 2011

434. A Chinese Poem

As a young man listening to the girls
in a tower, I heard the sound of the rain,
while the red candle burnt dim in the damp air.
In middle age, travelling by boat on a river,
I listened to the rain falling, falling:
the river was wide and clouds drifted above.
I heard the solitary cry of a teal borne on the west wind.
And now in a cloister cell I hear the rain again.
My hair is grey and sparse: sadness and happiness,
separation and reunion, all seem one, they move
me no more. Let the rain come falling, falling

on deserted pavements until the day dawns.

-- Jung Jeh, 10th century