The autumn sky shimmers, all empty

distances far beyond human thought.

Cranes lift like sand tossed across horizons,

then mountains rise clear above the mist.

Ripples on the water quiet with nightfall;

all is clear and calm in the pure moonlight.

Content with a single paddle, I drift

on and on, no thought of return.

(wang wei)

A thin mist drifts below thick clouds.

My sorrow defies the hours.

The incense curls and vanishes

above a gold dragon;

today was 9/9, the festival of flowers.

At midnight my jade pillow

is draped with a damp chill.

I sip wine at twilight, by the eastern wall,

where we parted, the fragrance

of plum blossoms everywhere,

filling even my sleeves.

Don’t say we’re not drifting apart.

The western wind lifts the curtains,

and I’m as frail as a chrysanthemum.

(li qingzhao)

The drums of war

have cleared the road.

A lone goose calls.

Autumn is almost gone;

the dew whitens to frost.

This bright moon

reminds me of my village

and my brothers, scattered,

homeless, perhaps dead.

I write them letters

and toss them to the wind.

When will this fighting end?

(du fu)

Empty mountain. No one sees.

A voice echoes and is lost.

Light returns to hidden trees,

And falls again on dark moss.

(wang wei)