Sent to Ch'ao, the Palace Reviser
You polish words in rue-scented libraries,
and I live in bamboo-leaf gardens, a recluse
wandering each day the same winding path
home to rest in the quiet, no noise anywhere.
A bird soaring the heights chooses its tree,
but the hedge soon tangles impetuous goats.
Today, things seen becoming thoughts felt:
this is where you start forgetting the words.
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