reading won't save us from death
and reading won't free us from want
then why do we like to be literate
the literate lord it over others
if a grown man can't read
where can he live in peace
squeeze garlic juice in your crowfoot
and you'll forget it's bitter

the unfortunate human disorder
a palate that's never weary
of steamed piglet with garlic sauce
roast duck with pepper and salt
deboned raw fish mince
unskinned cooked pork cheek
unaware of the bitterness of others' lives
as long as their own are sweet

raise girls but not too many
once born you have to train them
smack their heads and yell watch out
beat their behinds and shout shut up
and before they learn how to work a loom
they won't touch a basket or broom
Old Lady Chang advised her young jenny
you're big but no match for your Mother

people ask the way to Cold Mountain
roads don't reach Cold Mountain
summer the ice never melts
sunup the fog is thick
how did someone like me arrive
our minds aren't the same
if they were
you could get there then

Nine dragons — how fluent their undulations! —
Bear me aloft by nebulous sky-stays.
I look down with slanted glance, missing my old country,
But wind and dust blend it in featureless verdure.
Gently, easily, I separate from the human domain;
Away, away, drawing near to the town of God.
Surmounting the strands of starry chronograms above,
Observing the lights of sun and moon below.
Swiftly now, past the Grand Tenuity:
The blaze of a sky dwelling — gleaming, glittering.

Dawn cicadas choke back sobs,
Evening orioles grieve.

Lively language,
quick,
precise,
from ten fingers' tips.

He's done with reading holy texts;
He wants to play a bit.

His tune floats after
temple chimes
to gild clear autumn's air.

Wind

Seeking marsh
orchids, a light
zephyr ranges.

It wafts over strings;
they cry out,
one chord.

Twigs in the woods
sing in whistles and rustles.

Along paths through the pine trees:
night-bracing
fresh.

Don't you see how the Running Horse River flows along the edge of the Sea of Snow,
Where vast and wild the brown of level sands reaches to the sky?

The wind howls at night in the ninth month over Lun-t'ai,
And a river full of broken boulders big as bushel baskets
Covers the earth with careening stones blown before the wind.

The Hsiung-nu grass turns yellow now, their horses fit and plump;
West of the Altai Range we see the dust of rebellion fly;
A general of the House of Han campaigns in the distant west.

Moon set, a crow caws
frost fills the sky
River, maple, fishing-fires
cross my troubled sleep.
Beyond the walls of Soochow
from Cold Mountain temple
The midnight bell sounds
reach my boat.

The birds go fluttering in the air,
The rabbits run and skip,
Brown squirrels race along the bough,
The May-flies rise and dip;
But, whilst these creatures play and leap,
The silent snake goes creepy-creep!

The birdies sing and whistle loud,
The busy insects hum,
The squirrels chat, the frogs say "croak!"
But the snake is always dumb.
With not a sound through grasses deep
The silent snakes goes creepy-creep!