Tan Chun Man · Saxaul

Half a sheet of paper for a life, one ball of wine-fumes, blended with the cold clear light. Cattle and sheep beyond the frontier, the slanting sun watched into old age — no more than yesterday's gladness. Slack and tired, I lie along the eaves-tooth, bare feet braced, alone in its deep quiet. Let the common world part and run where it will; tomorrow is still the locust-tree dream.

Don't blame the winter plum for failing early, nor the hungry birds for pecking it all away — in the end it is their nature. The long song of ten thousand ages, looked at from now, has never had its true savour turned over and sung. Again I hope for next year's spring, afraid, only afraid, of staking my life for nothing. What of it, then? Then let the four seas be made over!