C

SORROW

The white moon gleams through scudding

Clouds in the cold sky of the Ninth

Month. The white frost weighs down the

Leaves and the branches bend low

Over the freezing water.

All alone I sit by my

Window. The crushing burden

Of the passing days never

Grows lighter for an instant.

I write poems, change and correct them,

And finally throw them away.

Gold crysanthemums wither

Along the balcony. Hard

Cries of migrating storks fall

Heavily from the icy sky.

All alone by my window

Hidden in my empty room,

All alone, I burn incense,

And dream in the smoke, all alone.

THE POETESS CHU SHU CHEN