On a winter’s night I wrote this poem for Wen Ting Yun

Translated by: 
Justin Hill

Cursing myself, scrabbling for a poem,

composing it by lamplight.

Awake all night, afraid of climbing

under my cold quilt.


At dawn the yard frets

with the rustle of restless leaves,

sheer window curtains catch

the last of the fading moon.


Shit happens.

I think now I’ve found fulfilment.

Success follows failure follows what?

There’s a third way forward.


Roosting each night, never to settle

where home-trees grow

Dusk-sparrows twitter forever

flapping round the forest.

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