Terrible to love the lovely so,
To count your own years, to say "I'm old,"
- Han Shan, "Cold Mountain Buddhas"
Which face and body it was giving shape to the dream
Of the night before; whether it was dream or memory
That had risen in him, raised him into the old passion
In which he was young again and sliding slowly into it
Holding him hard and tightening around him, in him,
Pulling from him a last held breath that he imagined
Must be something like dying, a soft slipping away.
But the young cannot imagine death, nor old age;
How he dreams each night and wakes to dead desire.
Poetry by countryfog
Read 683 times
Editors' choice
Written on 2010-11-03 at 16:49
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To count your own years, to say "I'm old,"
- Han Shan, "Cold Mountain Buddhas"
Nocturne
And one morning he realizes that he cannot rememberWhich face and body it was giving shape to the dream
Of the night before; whether it was dream or memory
That had risen in him, raised him into the old passion
In which he was young again and sliding slowly into it
Holding him hard and tightening around him, in him,
Pulling from him a last held breath that he imagined
Must be something like dying, a soft slipping away.
But the young cannot imagine death, nor old age;
How he dreams each night and wakes to dead desire.
Poetry by countryfog
Read 683 times
Editors' choiceWritten on 2010-11-03 at 16:49
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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vladimir todor turmanev |
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josephus |
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Editorial Team |
