IMITATION FROM THE CHINESE

Ten thousand projects,

Bitter tasks set;

Five, ten, twenty . . .

The years fly.

No end to it.

And the heart tires

With no place to light;

So much remorse,

Barren regret.

No end to it.

The world hurries by

Blindly bent.

Why waste the heart

On cares, discontent?

No end to it.

Seek out instead

A landscape of quiet;

A cup of dark wine –

Song sweeter yet.

No end to it.

— This poem appears in the Jan. 22 print issue of NR.