poem

A Mirage People make monuments out of clay. In idleness, I study the sky. Dark clouds portend rain. The history of clouds is the history of rice crops below. The unknown poet Du Fu thought seagulls, suspended between heaven and earth, had traced his signature in the sky. Still, he is unsure if his poems will fly down the ages… What does all this matter to me, for I have even given up wine. Whose praise do I need, as I am too poor to take a wife. Still, I am glad I am not a figment of someone’s imagination, and I, I have a cold stream nearby. I have set the fish trap. It contains no mirage. Koon Woon Oct 5, 2024