What is sky but water, more water, crossed by eight bridges? Is the ancient poet in a rush to reach land? No, he’s already one of the Six Immortals. How long before the papery iris-petals he admires wrinkle? They barely grow beards. In a thousand years, pilgrims will come. They will stand where he stood. Where, they will ask, are the flowers that empurpled his poem? Copyright @ 2014 by Debora Greger. Used with permission of the author. |
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