The characters may appear to be sitting or walking,
flying or moving, going away or coming back,
sad or happy, like Spring or Summer, Autumn or Winter,
like a bird pecking for food or an insect eating away wood,
like a sharp knife or dagger, or a strong bow and arrow,
like water and fire, like trees and clouds,
like the sun and moon following their course:
such is calligraphy
Ts’ai Yung (A.D. 133-192)
In the beginning, was it spring or summer?
Autumn or winter? Were we sad or happy?
Going or coming back? You were like fire,
I thought, and I was like water.
Or you were the fire, and I was the air,
quickly devoured. Some days I was a tree
spreading my arms, and you were a cloud
passing through me. Sometimes you were the tree,
snagging me on your bare black branches.
Apart, we were small, two figures on opposite
horizons, caught in a seasonless season.
We made our way in the world, like birds
leaving the nest, two hungry birds.
You were the sun, and I was the moon going
through my changes, following your course.
Like daggers in each other’s pockets, our words
were shiny and dangerous, always flashing out.
As we walked and moved and flew, as we passed
the midpoint, as, restless, exhausted,
we went away and came back, did it matter
if we were sad or happy? Did we even know?
Like the sun and moon following their course,
the years kept passing, how many years?
You were the bow to my arrow,
or you were the unswerving arrow
aimed at the heart’s moving target.
Like a quiet stream next to a campsite,
like dry kindling blazing into a bonfire,
or a tree’s sudden flowering,
our lives kept changing, circling back.
Like the weather that is never one thing,
like words with more than one meaning:
that’s how it was with us.
Leave a Reply