by layman k
Midnight, can’t sleep,
so I sit up, to try my lute.
Curtains catch moonlight
the pure breeze flutters my sleeves.
A lone swan cries: in wilderness,
and flies, crying, to the north woods,
turning, and turning, and gyring there,
Loneliness; to be alone so
wounds heart and mind.
(from The Shambhala Anthology of Chinese Poetry translated and edited by J.P Seaton)