Living
As A Recluse
On The Lake
Lakewater
Comes into the yard.
Mountains
Wind round my hut.
A recluse
Should avoid the world.
Normally shut,
The unused door's turned blue with moss.
Guests arrive,
Frightening white birds to flight.
Selling herbs,
I almost hate to price them,
Love watering the garden
According to nature.
And how about
India Road
Through the woods,
Still reaching deep autumn
In a distant,
Blue dream?
________________
Lin He-Jing
Recluse-Poet of Orphan Mountain
Brooding Heron Press 1993
translated by Paul Hansen
