WEN I-TO

Miracle

I never wanted the red of fire, the black at midnight

of the Peach Blossom Pool, the mournful melody of the p’i-p’a,

or the fragrance of roses. I never loved the stern

pride of the leopard, and no white dove ever had

the beauty I craved. I never wanted any of these things,

but their crystallization—a miracle ten thousand

times more rare than them all! But I am famished and harried.

I cannot go without nourishment: even if it is

dregs and chaff, I still have to beg for it. Heaven knows

I do not wish to be like this. I am by no means

so stubborn or stupid. I am simply tired of waiting,

tired of waiting for the miracle to arrive; and

I dare not starve. Ah, who doesn’t know of how little worth

is a tree full of singing cicadas, a jug of turbid wine,

or smoky mountain peaks, bright ravines, stars

glittering in the empty sky? It is all so ordinary,

so inexorably dull, and it isn’t worth our ecstatic joy,

our crying out the most moving names, or the

longing to cast gold letters and put them in a song.

I also affirm that to let tears come

at the song of an oriole is trivial, ridiculous,

and a waste of time. But who knows? I cannot be otherwise.

I am so famished and harried I take lamb’s-quarters

and wild hyssop for fine grain—

but there’s no harm

in speaking clearly as long as the miracle appears.

Then at once I will cast off the ordinary. I will never

again gaze at a frosted leaf and dream of a spring blossom’s

dazzle. I will not waste my strength, peel open

stones, and demand the warmth of white jade.

Give me one miracle, and I will never again whip ugliness,

and compel it to give up the meaning of its

opposite. Actually, I am weary of all this,

and these strained implications are hard to explain.

All I want is one clear word flashing like a Buddhist relic

with fierce light. I want it whole, complete,

shining in full face. I am by no means so stubborn

or stupid; but I cannot see a round fan without

seeing behind it an immortal face. So,

I will wait for as many incarnations as it takes—

since I’ve made a vow. I don’t know how many

incarnations have already passed; but I’ll wait

and wait, quietly, for the miracle to arrive.

That day must come! Let lightning strike me,

volcanoes destroy me. Let all hell rise up and crush me!

Am I terrified? No, no wind will blow out

the light in me. I only wish my cast-off body

would turn into ashes. And so what? That, that minutest

fraction of time is a minutest fraction of—

ah, an extraordinary gust, a divine and stellar hush

(sun, moon, and spin of all stars stopped;

time stopped, too)—the most perfectly round peace.

I hear the sound of the door pivoting: and with it

the rustling of a skirt. That is a miracle.

And in the space of a half-open gold door,

you are crowned with a circle of light!