Weak wine – Strong blossoms.
For the exile,
Hesian cherries weep in a pinkwind.
A bell rings in the monastery tower.
In white migration of dancing clouds,
Continents form and submerge across the darkening west without incident.
In a paused wind,
Beyond the gate,
Falling rocks echo into scroll-paintings of black bamboo.
So few evenings go to make up a century.
A bell rings —
It was enough to dream in jade of remote fields,
And let the world slip away.