7/7 in a Strange Village
7/7 in a strange village, at a transit inn,
the grief of distant wandering sharpens.
No girls busy threading festive needles,
thoughts of my homeworld towers empty,
tangled winds thin summer heat away.
A new moon rises. It climbs into autumn.
Who can bear those Star River distances?
I gaze deep, deep and far, Dipper and Ox.
By Meng Hao-jan
After Shih-Te
my ragged cloak is streaked with mountain shadows
my torn-out sandals scrape bare prints through the moss
home again, I wash my legs, bury my head in my hands...
am I warm? am I cold? I no longer know
By Shih-Shu
