Poems of Zhang Xu
Spring grasses, green, green, horizon and beyond.
Border town, sundown, I see someone leaving home.
I know the feeling, ocean bound, three years gone.
No one sends, among those clouds, a single word from home.
If you had stood on the northern hills of central China during the Tang dynasty, the grassy plains of Central Asia ran north into the distance. In the spring, that greenness would have staggered the imagination. Only an ocean could have compared with that infinite green.