A Short Poem Written At The Moment When A Rising River Looked Like A Rolling Ocean
I was stubborn by nature and addicted to perfect lines,
fought to the death to find words that startle.
Now in old age my poems flow out freely, the way
flowers and birds forget deep sorrow in spring.
A new water pavilion has been built for fishing with a rod.
I choose to use a bamboo raft instead of a boat.
If only my thoughts were guided by poets Tao and Xie,1
we’d travel and together write poems.