Untitled
Mountain devoid of human presence stands
silent save remembrance of your voice. Bright green moss blankets the forest bed we laid upon, now wet with rain. Late sun cuts through the depths-- dries treetop Old Man's Beard, my tears. This moment, who lingers here--you or I? Jill M. MacCormack
This poem was inspired a few weeks ago by this wonderful post and was written from Andrew Griffin's translation of Wang Wei's original. And from notes to a friend regarding it:
" I know the above is not true to Wang Wei's original intent but it... does touch on some Buddhist Mysticism as well as looks up and down, back and forward. A loose interpretation...at best."
Thanks for reading!
Jill