~ 王維 ~
My fishing boat sails the river, I love spring
in the mountains.
Peach blossoms crowed the river on both banks
as far as sight.
Sitting in the boat, I look at red trees and forget
how far I've come.
Drifting to the green river's end, I see no one.
Hidden paths winding into the mountain's mouth.
Suddenly the hills open into a plain
and I see a distant mingling of trees and clouds.
Then coming near I make out houses, bamboo groves
and flowers
where woodcutters still have names from Han times
and people were Qin dynasty clothing.
They used to live where I do, at Wuling Spring,
but now they cultivate rice and gardens
beyond the real world.
Clarity of the moon brings quiet to windows under
the pines.
Chickens and dogs riot when sun rises out of clouds.
Shocked to see an outsider, the crowed sticks to me,
competing to drag me to their homes and ask
about their native places.
At daybreak in the alleys they sweep flowers from
their doorways.
By dusk woodcutters and fishermen return,
floating in on the waves.
They came here to escape the chaotic world,
Deathless now, they have no hunger to return.
Amid these gorges, what do they know of the world?
In our illusion we see only empty clouds and mountains.
I don't know that paradise is hard to find,
and my heart of dust still longs for home
Leaving it all, I can't guess how many mountains
and waters lie behind me,
and am haunted by an obsession to return.
I was sure I could find my way back, the secret paths
again.
How could I know the mountains and ravines would
change?
I remember only going deep into the hills.
At times the green river touched cloud forests.
With spring, peach blossom water is everywhere,
but I never find the holy source again.
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