After Tao Yuan-ming

It will not be the first time

I have slept in the wilderness.

Tall grasses heavy with seed

will shadow the headstone,

the wind will question the aspen

and pass on without me.

September will come, driving the seeds

to earth—small birds

of passage rustle the fallen leaves.

Those who have brought me here

will have gone, each to his house,

to his own occupation.

Alone in the sandy darkness

I shall lie for a thousand years,

a thousand years without warmth

or touch, a thousand years

without speaking.