After Meng Hao-jan
After Meng Hao-jan
Every Friday I carry home a small bird
Upon which I lavish all my attention
Neither green nor red hilltops lure me
I do not speculate about ceaseless wonders
Those passing overhead can see
In winter I drink tea by the window
Stars shine through my reflection
Occasionally I go out and see if I might
Find another remote and insubstantial form
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