Março=> Poesia
Na vigésima quinta manhã de Março, ainda a relatar e com muito para relatar, interrompo a minha triste sina com um poema de Li Shang-Yin, directamente copiado de uma página da Internet, mais tarde darei o endereço:
Untitled Poems IV
For ever hard to meet, and as hard to part.
Each flower spoiled in the failing East wind.
Spring's silkworms wind till death their heart's threads:
The wick of the candle turns to ash before its tears dry.
Morning mirror's only care, a change at her cloudy temples:
Saying over a poem in the night,
does she sense the chill in the moonbeam?
Not far, from here to Fairy Hill.
Bluebird, be quick now, spy me out the road.
Na vigésima quinta manhã de Março, ainda a relatar e com muito para relatar, interrompo a minha triste sina com um poema de Li Shang-Yin, directamente copiado de uma página da Internet, mais tarde darei o endereço:
Untitled Poems IV
For ever hard to meet, and as hard to part.
Each flower spoiled in the failing East wind.
Spring's silkworms wind till death their heart's threads:
The wick of the candle turns to ash before its tears dry.
Morning mirror's only care, a change at her cloudy temples:
Saying over a poem in the night,
does she sense the chill in the moonbeam?
Not far, from here to Fairy Hill.
Bluebird, be quick now, spy me out the road.
Comentários