Classic Poem

Flakes of lacquer, dust of bones,
Red cinnabar,
The ancient blood once spurted forth
And bore bronze flowers.
White feathers and its metal stem
Have rotted in the rain
Only the three spines still remain,
Broken teeth of a wolf.

I searched this plain of battle
With a pair of nags,
In stony fields east of the post-station,
On a weed-grown hill
An endless wind, the day short,
Desolate stars,
Black banners of damp clouds
Hung in void-night.
Souls to the left, spirits to the right,
Gaunt with hunger, wailing.

I poured curds from my tilted flask,
Offered roast mutton.
Insects silent, the wild geese sick,
Reed shoots reddening,
A whirlwind came to see me off,
Blowing the ghost-fires.
In tears I sought this ancient field,
Picked up a broken arrow,
Its shattered point, scarlet and cracked,
Once drove through flesh.
In South Street, by the eastern wall,
A lad on horseback
Urged me to exchange the metal
For a votive-basket.