The mind of silk, woven with a rosary of jade,
lingers as a saint beside the fire, watching
the fabric burn into the night, turned to smoke,
left without a trace or wake behind the tides
of form, relinquished as the shadows
on a moonlit pond, now emptied of their light,
their passion faded to simplicity, as whiteness
to the snow, merging with the heron's wings,
circling toward the heights, returned as rhythm
to the skies, come and gone as seasons
in a moment's dawn, without a breath of purpose,
limpid as the waters, quiet as the distant well
listening to the drifting leaves of time.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem