Liu Tsung-yüan
Liu Tsung-yüan
元宗柳
RIVER-SNOW
A hundred mountains and no bird,A thousand paths without a footprint;A little boat, a bamboo cloak,An old man fishing in the cold river-snow.
FROM THE CITY-TOWER OF LIU-CHOU
To My Four Fellow-Officials
At Chang, Ting, Fêng, and Lien Districts
At this lofty tower where the town ends, wilderness begins;And our longing has as far to go as the ocean or the sky . . .Hibiscus-flowers by the moat heave in a sudden wind,And vines along the wall are whipped with slanting rain.Nothing to see for three hundred miles but a blur of woods and mountain—And the river's nine loops, twisting in our bowels. . . .This is where they have sent us, this land of tattooed people—And not even letters, to keep us in touch with home.
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