A poem from the Chinese, written by Ma Tai 1,200 years or so ago -- for a friend in the Ukraine --
The faint path through green grass ends.
A door in white clouds opens.
Zither strings leave off where music of the pines begins.
As I watch, the river-moon rises.
During the nights, birds alter the flower bed;
the woodcutter's son goes early to water it.
Brushing off the green moss of river rocks,
we sit together in the morning dew.
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