cold mountain (30)

Heavy with unknowing and forgetful, how can these hands dance, how will this mouth sing? My feet mingle with the thousands, tangled in russet dust. I am like an old iron cup left out too many seasons. I still gather rain, but no one will drink. I still have form, but don’t remember how to function. The grass keeps growing taller; by midsummer, I will be buried.

Chinese and English pp. 56-57, here.

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