Willows can’t change this water’s color, nor a skiff float its shades away
Rain can’t erase the scent of island oranges, nor bees sip all their fragrance
On the mountain top, no one’s in the stone pagoda
The sky’s blue says all prospers in peace
Below these stone steps, gusts
clamor like mountain bandits
On ancient walls, mosses write no history
From pagoda eaves, wind chimes impossible to understand
Far below, a bamboo raft, oars snapped, lies stranded
Thin mist shrouds an old tree tilted yet still upstriving
Xie Lingyun wrote “Spring grass sprouts by the pond, new birds sing in the willows”
Cities at night, he said, were golden chalices
Our boat slips down the river, oranges skinned and swallowed,
yet we discuss politicians only, never Xie Lingyun
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