The south

One of your courtyards, watch

Ancient stars

From the bench in the shadow,


These scattered little highlights;

My ignorance has not learned to call their names,

Will not be arranged in constellations;

Only feel the whirling of water

In a secluded pool;

Only the fragrance of jasmine and honeysuckle,

The tranquility of the sleeping birds,

The arch of the entrance hall, moisture

One of these things, perhaps, is poetry.



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