Poems of Meng Jiao
Sad Meng, in his mountain cabin, welcomes the sunrise on Mount Song
Sadness embraced in my remoteness.
Deep peacefulness in my mountain hut.
I don't hear anything new to smile at.
But I can read all my old scrolls of poems.
Meditating, thoughts full of suffering.
A mountain garden provides little food.
Where is my certainty of yesterday?
Sadly now, even the familiar seems scattered.
Ways without love soon come to an end.
Simple, honest ways are hard to preserve.
Autumn weeds are sprouting in my empty hall
And cold hibiscus petals fill the gutters.
I'd pull the weeds but that might hurt the flowers.
Roll up my sleeves and hoe them anyway.
I'll just leave a remnant for their fragrance.
Who could bear to remove all their grace?
Hesitant, not yet able to go,
For you, these tears flow.
Meng Jiao is at home, in the city, editing down his collected poetry, preparing it for posterity. The title is simply an elaborate conceit. Get your head around this idea and go back and read the poem again.