Looking South To The River (Ii)
Outside the curtains: Sa Sa, the sound
of rain. Spring is almost over. These silk blankets
are too thin, the fifth watch too cold
and in my dream, I had forgotten
about all of this—my self, this exile.
Again in pleasure.
I am starting to think—that when the sun
is setting and you are resting alone, it's better not
to look south to those streams and hills. Leaving
them was easy—but going back last night
was hard. The waters flowing away. The flowers
breaking to the ground. Spring has also left.
That heaven, this earth.