Искусствоед
Chu Shu Chen
The Old Anguish
Sheltered from the Spring wind by
A silver screen, I doze in my
Folded quilt, cold and alone.
I start awake a the cry
Of a bird — my dream is gone.
The same sorrow, the same headache
Return. Thick shadows of flowers
Darken the filigree lattice.
Incense coils over the screen
And spirals past my pillow.
The oriole is not to blame
For a broken dream of a Bygone Spring. I sit with my
Old anguish as the evening fades.
(from "One Hundred Poems from the Chinese)
transl. by Kenneth Rexroth
The Old Anguish
Sheltered from the Spring wind by
A silver screen, I doze in my
Folded quilt, cold and alone.
I start awake a the cry
Of a bird — my dream is gone.
The same sorrow, the same headache
Return. Thick shadows of flowers
Darken the filigree lattice.
Incense coils over the screen
And spirals past my pillow.
The oriole is not to blame
For a broken dream of a Bygone Spring. I sit with my
Old anguish as the evening fades.
(from "One Hundred Poems from the Chinese)
transl. by Kenneth Rexroth