Written several years ago while camping. Yesterday I came across a 350-year-old haiku that said the same thing. Both are posted here. It confirmed my (undoubtedly self-serving) belief that a truly original thought is a very rare thing.
Mostly birch, white and spectral in moonlight;
Built a careful campfire between two old trees
And watched the flames turn them autumn colors.
There was a stream nearby where water rushed
Over implacable stones worn round and smooth,
Polished by the patience of uncountable years.
The water rushed to wherever it is water goes,
But the music remained; and I suddenly knew
It was not the song of water, but of stones.
The stream in the valley;
Stones too sing songs
Under the cherry blossoms.
- Uejima Onitsura
Poetry by countryfog
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Written on 2011-02-26 at 19:41
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Water and Stones
I camped that night near the edge of the woods,Mostly birch, white and spectral in moonlight;
Built a careful campfire between two old trees
And watched the flames turn them autumn colors.
There was a stream nearby where water rushed
Over implacable stones worn round and smooth,
Polished by the patience of uncountable years.
The water rushed to wherever it is water goes,
But the music remained; and I suddenly knew
It was not the song of water, but of stones.
The stream in the valley;
Stones too sing songs
Under the cherry blossoms.
- Uejima Onitsura
Poetry by countryfog
Read 549 times
Written on 2011-02-26 at 19:41
Save as a bookmark (requires login) Write a comment (requires login) Send as email (requires login) Print text
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