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"The River-Merchant's Wife: A Letter"

Li Po / China
While my hair was still cut straight across my
forehead
I played about the front gate, pulling flowers.
You came by on bamboo stilts, playing horse,
You walked about my seat, playing with blue
plums.
And we went on living in the village of Chokan:
Two small people, without dislike or suspicion.
At fourteen I married My Lord you.
I never laughed, being bashful.
Lowering my head, I looked at the wall.
Called to, a thousend times, I never looked back.
At fifteen I stopped scowling,
I desired my dust to be mingled with yours
Forever and forever and forever.
Why should I climb the look out?
At sixteen you departed,
You went into far Ku-to-en, by the river of swirling
eddies,
And you have been gone five months.
The monkeys make sorrowful noise overhead.
You dragged your feet when you went out.
By the gate now, the moss is grown, the different
mosses,
Too deep to clear them away!
The leaves fall early this autumn, in wind.
The paired butterflies are already yellow with
August
Over the grass in the West garden;
They hurt me. I grow older.
If you are coming down through the narrows of
the river Kiang,
Please let me know beforehand,
And I will come out to meet you
As far as Cho-fu-Sa.
"No Loss No Gain"
-Rajaram Ramachandran / India
The candle melts itself,
And the wick burns itself,
Just to give us away its light.
The incense stick ashes itself,
And turns to smoke itself,
Just to give us its aroma.
The sandalwood grinds itself,
And a paste, it becomes itself,
Just to give us away its scent.
The rose crushes itself,
And in water sinks itself,

Just to give us its flavor-drink.


The sugar cane crushes itself,
And becomes crystal itself,
Just to sweeten our food.
The field takes the seeds itself,
And turns them into plants itself,
Just to give us rich corn.
The tree labors itself,
And grows tall itself,
Just to give us its juicy fruits.
The cocoon spins itself,
And then unwinds itself,
Just to give us its silk.
The milk curdles itself,
And again churns itself,
Just to give us its butter.
The mother suffers pain herself,
But still smiles herself,
Just to feed the baby with her milk.
The camphor fumes itself,
And turns black smoke itself,
Just to illuminate the Lord.
One can gain something,
Only by losing something,
That's the law of nature.
Yes, the sacrifice's the mother,
Of what, in our life, we gather,
As the fruit of our labor.
So, grieve not over your loss,
A stepping stone to your success,
If you want to remain happy always.

Masaoka Shiki
Night; and once again,
the while I wait for you, cold wind
turns into rain.
I want to sleep
Swat the flies
Softly, please.
When I turned my head
That traveller I'd just passed...
Melted in the mist.
My life How much more of it remains?
The night is brief.

another typhoon,
yet still it tries to beam...
ISSA
My grumbling wife if only she were here!
this moon tonight...
A lovely thing to see:
through the paper window's hole,
the Galaxy.
The first firefly...
But he got away and I...
Air in my fingers.
In this world
we walk on the roof of hell,
gazing at flowers.
After killing
a spider, how lonely I feel
in the cold of night!

ILAW
The light is muted,
glowing ever so faintly
and I cup my hands
to shelter it from
the harsh wind...
It flickers,
it wavers,
and my heart
does a triple dive
then beats back to normal
as I see that flame
fight, become steady,
and stand up against that wind.
I've seen this happen before,
but it always tries to shine forth
with a ferocity
that can only be fueled
by love and faith...
A different gust,

This light amazes me


with its tenacity.
I go through life with
only a mere spark of it
in my heart
But how proud I am
to have been borne from it,
to have it with me,
burning in my soul.
This light is awe-inspiring...
with just a kiss from it
and warmth abounds,
never burning out,
rather, sharing that glow
to brighten lives.
I fear though,
for the light is muted,
glowing ever so faintly
and I cup my hands
to shelter it from
the harsh wind...
Taking deep breaths,
we search for ways
to make that flame
glow strong again,
burning as bright as before
A strike of a match
for a candle,
with its smoke weaving
its way to heaven,
to say a prayer
for that light
to keep on glowing
The wick may be short,
the wax melting faster
than we would want it to...
But the light is still there,
and that gives me hope.

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