Искусствоед
Li Po
In Imitation of the Ancients
The living? You pass them on the road.
The dead? They're home already.
From Heaven to Earth, the briefest trip,
the same sad dust, ten thousand ages.
The rabbit in the moon stays
at his work at his mortar and pestle,
but the Fu-sang tree's already turned to kindling.
Dry bones sleep: they have nothing to say
when graveyard pines green to spring's coming.
What we call glory floats on air....
How could that be the prize?
transl. by J.P. Seaton
In Imitation of the Ancients
The living? You pass them on the road.
The dead? They're home already.
From Heaven to Earth, the briefest trip,
the same sad dust, ten thousand ages.
The rabbit in the moon stays
at his work at his mortar and pestle,
but the Fu-sang tree's already turned to kindling.
Dry bones sleep: they have nothing to say
when graveyard pines green to spring's coming.
What we call glory floats on air....
How could that be the prize?
transl. by J.P. Seaton