The blue-lotus roof standing beside a pond, White-Horse Creek tumbling through forests, and my old friend some strange thing now. A lingering visitor, alone and grief-stricken after graveside rites among pines, I return, Looking for your sitting-mat spread on rock. Bamboo that seems always my own thoughts: It keeps fluttering here at your thatch hut.
From The Mountain Poetry on Meng Hao-jan by Meng Hao-jan, translated by David Hinton. Copyright © Archipelago Books, 2004. All rights reserved.