Poems of Meng Jiao
Rotten Branch Rocks
One day in the world of immortals is
As a thousand ages among men.
Until these paired games are played out
All living things are but delusion.
The woodcutters are going home now, after
Chopping rotten branches blown down by the wind.
They leave their refuse on the rocks by the bridge,
Lying within the red bar of a rainbow.
There is no poetry today with the spiritual insight of the first verse above. Neither is there any modern poetry with the immediacy and selflessness which is found in the second verse. For over a year now, I have spent my mornings in the company of Meng Jiao, who can combine all this, and more, into his poems.