孟郊诗

Poems of Meng Jiao


Index

老恨

Old Regrets


无子抄文字
老吟多飘零
有时吐向床
枕席不解听

Without a son, I seize on writing.
Old poems. So many withered away.
Sometimes, I'm sick in bed, lying there,
Not understanding what I hear.

斗蚁甚微细
病闻亦清泠
小大不自识
自然天性灵

It's as if tiny ants were fighting.
I hear them in my sickness, and clearly, too.
I don't understand myself at all.
Naturally, by Heaven's will, I am a mystery.

-- 孟郊


废话

If you pay attention to your own consciousness, you will notice that a thought will come to you and you will immediately repeat it. You will notice that it takes longer to repeat the suggestion than to hear it suggest itself.

This duality, once noted, moves one away from identifying oneself with the suggestion. No suggestion that comes this way is original. These banalities come identically to everyone. That which comes as original, that which is your thought, does not need you to repeat it. You simply act upon each revelation of who you are.

These are the tiny voices Meng Jiao hears. And he knows they are not his own. It is one's own reflection of the unborn mind which is a mystery. And this mystery is more important to Meng Jiao than the suggestions of old regrets.

This feihua, itself, will have initiated a cascade of suggestions in your own thought by now. 证明完毕.


Index