Fog at Liang-hsiang
No rain, and yet my saddle is damp,
and so I know we're traveling in fog.
Morning blossoms—hard to tell their colors;
river water—only hear the sound.
The man beside me seems miles away;
all day the sky is as before the dawn.
The road ahead has always been a dream:
why insist on seeing it all clear?
and so I know we're traveling in fog.
Morning blossoms—hard to tell their colors;
river water—only hear the sound.
The man beside me seems miles away;
all day the sky is as before the dawn.
The road ahead has always been a dream:
why insist on seeing it all clear?
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