SEVEN SONGS AT GATHER VALLEY

1

A wanderer—O all year this wanderer that I am,

white hair a shoulder-length confusion, gathering

acorns all year, like the monkey sage. Under cold

skies, the sun sets in this mountain valley. No word

arrives from the central plain, and for my failing

skin and bone, ice-parched hands and feet, no return

no return there Song, my first song

               sung, O song already sad enough,

winds come from the furthest sky grieving my grief.

2

Sturdy hoe, O long sturdy hoe, my white-timbered

fortune—now I’m depending on you, on you alone

for life, there isn’t a wild yam shoot to dig. Snow

fills the mountains. I tug at a coat never covering

my shins. And when we come home empty-handed

again—children’s cries are deafening, four walls

harboring quiet Song, my second song

               sung, O song beginning to carry,

this village is peopled with the faces of my sorrow.

3

Brothers of mine, my brothers in far-off places, O

three thin brothers all frail and weak, and these

scattered lives we wander never meet, Mongol dust

smothering sky, roads between us going on forever.

Cranes flock eastward, following geese. But cranes—

how could cranes carry me there, to a life beside

my brothers Song, my third song

               sung, O song sung three times over,

who knows where they’ll come to gather my bones?

4

Sister of mine, my sister off in Love-Apart—husband

dead young, orphan children unhinged, O my sister,

the long Huai is all deep swells, all flood-dragon fury:

how will you come now? And after ten years, how

will I find you in my little boat? Arrows fill my eyes,

and southlands riddled with war banners and flags

harbor another dark Song, my fourth song

               sung, O song rehearsed four times through,

gibbons haunt midday forest light wailing my wails.

5

Four mountains all windswept, headlong streams and

rain—O the cold rain falling through bare trees falls,

and clouds hang low. Among brown weeds and ancient

city walls—white foxes prowl, brown foxes keep still.

This life of mine—how can I live out this life in some

starveling valley? I sit up in the night, ten thousand

worries gathering Song, my fifth song

               sung, O song already long enough

calling my spirit, my lost spirit gone to my lost home.

6

Dragon—O a dragon in southern mountains, cragged

trees tangling their ancient branches above its pool:

when yellowed leaves fall, it sinks into hibernation,

and from the east come vipers prowling the waters.

A traveler amazed they would dare show themselves,

I slice them apart with my sword, and once I finish I

begin to rest here Song, my sixth song

               sung, O song wearing your thoughts thin,

spring’s gracing streams and valleys again with me,

7

               a man

every distinction has eluded, a man grown old only

to wander three hungry years on mountain roads.

How long for Ch’ang-an ministers? Honor, wealth—

they all devote themselves early. Wise men I knew

long ago live in these mountains. Our talk is all old

times gone by, nothing more—old friends harboring

wounded memories Song, my seventh song

               sung, O uneasy silence ending my tune,

white sun empties majestic sky with headlong flight.