observing an unspoken agreement
I follow a stream that has no spring
The choir’s woven harmony settles down over the courtyard. The singers unseen. The voices as strong as the late April sun.
and if you don’t reform this life
your next life will be the same
Ah, the moralist. But the one in me, or the one in you? They whistle the same tune, judgement set to an undertone of anxiety.
Against the chorus of shrieking birds which strikes up each evening, a single falling note, woop-oo, woop-oo, from another bird, unseen and unidentified. Can I live like that unseen bird’s cooling cry? Somehow beautiful, somehow pushing back the frantic scrabble of harsh voices that constitutes the usual panicked mortality?
because their skirts were frayed
Hems. Nerves. Hair. Rope. Wiring. Edges of days. Strands of life.
Chinese and English, pp. 66-69 here.