Often in the boredom of my office
I think about the ancient Chinese poets,
remote, delicate and serene.
As I wait,
impatient to make my poems,
I see parchment men of long-lost graces
sipping wine, in discourse,
reaching for pen and ink,
making incredible songs.
I do not yearn for T’ang.
Li Po, Po Chu I, Tu Fu
are sleeping sentiments to never come again,
but sometimes I cry for the beauty
absent from this life.