Sorrow, piled on my pillow, what is your shape?
Like waves in rivers and seas, you endlessly churn.
How long the night, how dark the sky, when will it be light?
Restless, I sat up, gown thrown over my shoulders, in the cold.
When dawn came at last, only ashes remained of my hundred thoughts ...
That poem, believe it or not, was written by Mao (taken from this book). All humans are subject to sorrow.
1 comment:
i've wanted to buy that book for such a long time now, ended up buying wild swans recently instead, was a real bargain at €5, yet to start it though.
Post a Comment