Raspberry scented dream
drip with the chill of autumn

Swallows rest behind shrouded green doors
as jade hairpins lie broken and scattered

Red candles sit cold
lonely against the endless landscape

Wind fills the night with rain
and whistles through leafless wood

No flute, no soldiers
No sword dance, no banquet.

As dreaming bamboo
are startled by cold thunder

Sighs a weary traveller
Let us go home



Wherever I am, the world comes after me.
It offers me its busyness. It does not believe
that I do not want it. Now I understand
why the old poets of China went so far and high
into the mountains, then crept into the pale mist.
(Mary Oliver)