Short Poems

In the valley where the stream leaps,
having built a grass hut by the rock,
I till the field under the moon,
lie down among the vast clouds.
Heaven and earth advise me
to age together with them.

A horse neighs, wants to gallop:
my love clings to me, begs me to stay.
The sun has crossed the hill.
I have a thousand miles to go.
My love, do not stop me:
stop the sun from setting!

Don't laugh if my roof beams
are long or short, the pillars
Tilted or crooked, or my grass hut small.
Moonlight that pours on the vines,
The encircling hills,
are mine — and mine alone.

A rain came overnight;
pomegranates are in full bloom.
Having rolled up a crystal screen
by the lotus pond,
Can I unravel this deep sorrow —
caused by someone I love?

I would draw her face with blood
that lies stagnant in my heart.
And on the plain wall of a high hall,
I would hang it up to gaze.
Who has invented the word Farewell?
Who causes me to die?

Love is a deceit.
She does not love me.
She says she comes to me in a dream:
it is a lie.
Lying awake every night,
in what dream shall I see her?

Snow falls on the mountain village
and buries the stone path.
Do not open the twig gate,
who will come to visit me here?
My only friend is
a slice of bright moon.

Do you say the wind blew last night
and frost and snow fell?
Tall drooping pines
are bent and broken.
What about the flower buds, then,
what is their fate?

The candle burns in the room,
for whom has it parted?
Shedding tears outside,
does it know that its inside burns?
That candle is like me,
it does not know its heart burns!

Fortune determines rise and fall,
Full Moon Terrace is autumn grass.
A shepherd's pipe echoes
the royal works of five hundred years.
A traveler cannot keep back his tears
in the setting sun.