Waning moon. I tune the lute
Away & become like you in
The coiling wind. The wine-
Glass wakes me. I hear the
Rattle of the endless, oblivious
Drunk. Everywhere I go, I owe
The pain in my heart to wine.

*

Rattle in the sky. A whirlwind
Breaks white birds into a grey-
Er river. I lift my cup & flow-
Ers sleep. I cannot sleep. I rub
My heavy eyelids across the cur-
Tain. Old, ill and tired, blown
Hither and yon. Clouds pile up.

*

The mating swallows embarrass
Me, flying two by two outside
My window. I hate them. I go
Out to smell the perfume of the
Flowers, but they bring me no
Pleasure, and I hate them, too.
This minor magistrate is drunk.

*

The moon, sad enough to tear
The bowels, tears my bowels
With sorrow. Incense coils o-
Ver the screen: hopelessness.
Amongst scattered & broken
Hair ornaments, I lie prostrate
& insensible. I try to grow old.

*

I am sick. My eyes hurt. Insects
Whistle in my old clothes. They
Have no fear of man. My limbs
Swell without limit. Knife in
Hand, I scrape off the scales.
I have lost the ability to write.
Why do the birds all hate me?

*

I wander in this pleasure garden
Until my drunkenness wears off.
One by one the stars go out, &
Sound drains down the river. I
Cannot write. Tears of loneli-
Ness rattle on the banana trees,
Frozen & sad. I am frozen, too.

*

I no longer know where I am.
I am still alive, and longing
For death. Mute, friendless, &
Feeding the crumbling years, I
Sit on the grass & start a poem.
It'd be better for me if I took a
Sword and cut open my bowels.

*

Wind passes. I tuck my head
Away, and wonder where you
Have gone. My poems are dry
& dull, & insects circle about
Them. Seeking pleasure, they
Find only sickness. Who cares?
We'll be together in the tomb.

*

In bed, asleep, I'm empty, with-
Ered with pain. My teeth decay.
Locusts lay their eggs in my thin-
Ning hair. I cannot stop them. I
Wish them long life & promise
Never to pick them. As long as
I am flesh I will never find rest.

*

No wind blows. My heart is not
Beating: it is useless. My skin
Is like sticky pudding, my bones
Yellow powder. My spirit hangs
On its little rack: there is no
Place it wants to go. Alone,
Nothing can make it disappear.