“We continue, even if it’s evening, even if it’s fall”.
– Chiao Jan
On the way,
It was a pause of light –
A gap between dream and morning.
Long ago (now) –
A negative space veiled Incense burner mountain in a garden of white clouds.
Oceans from sand painted islands of storms,
As a senescence of youths become forever inked into scrolled mountains.
From temples of mist,
Our remaining poems were completed in absences as well as words.
It was the decay of a shakuhachi voice.
It was distant winds sensing stentorian silence,
With spoken sumi-e strokes from a last T’ang poet.
On the way,
It was a pause of light.
Old stone lanterns became lit with dusk –
But we continued,
Even though a path lead nowhere –
Even though Peach blossoms turned to glittered ice –
Even though dry leaves rustled in rouge-tinted hands of autumn stars.