Poetry International Poetry International
Poem

Lü De\'an

Soul Lake

Rain's night-long lashing makes the lake listen;
Fitfully it tends to lucency.
Yet the rippling of bleached lotus-bodies
Remains deep-sunk in sighing.

Similar things have happened in the pond in my hills,
Amidst the flicker of tree reflections, one sees a face at its centre
Glimpsed time after time when I've bent down over it.
While in a still more faraway, moistened

Dream, I see how I walk from the house
Watching the house's illusion, but nothing is there,
Only the pond on my roof immovably shining,
And over this there floats a layer of leaves.

Ah, maybe in all of my own recollections of the natural,
In still deeper slumbering vagrancy we two once crossed paths;
And so, when your pilgrimaging spirit hums gently in the air,
I fall down like stones, and, fallen, brim over myself.

SOUL LAKE

Close

Soul Lake

Rain's night-long lashing makes the lake listen;
Fitfully it tends to lucency.
Yet the rippling of bleached lotus-bodies
Remains deep-sunk in sighing.

Similar things have happened in the pond in my hills,
Amidst the flicker of tree reflections, one sees a face at its centre
Glimpsed time after time when I've bent down over it.
While in a still more faraway, moistened

Dream, I see how I walk from the house
Watching the house's illusion, but nothing is there,
Only the pond on my roof immovably shining,
And over this there floats a layer of leaves.

Ah, maybe in all of my own recollections of the natural,
In still deeper slumbering vagrancy we two once crossed paths;
And so, when your pilgrimaging spirit hums gently in the air,
I fall down like stones, and, fallen, brim over myself.

Soul Lake

Rain's night-long lashing makes the lake listen;
Fitfully it tends to lucency.
Yet the rippling of bleached lotus-bodies
Remains deep-sunk in sighing.

Similar things have happened in the pond in my hills,
Amidst the flicker of tree reflections, one sees a face at its centre
Glimpsed time after time when I've bent down over it.
While in a still more faraway, moistened

Dream, I see how I walk from the house
Watching the house's illusion, but nothing is there,
Only the pond on my roof immovably shining,
And over this there floats a layer of leaves.

Ah, maybe in all of my own recollections of the natural,
In still deeper slumbering vagrancy we two once crossed paths;
And so, when your pilgrimaging spirit hums gently in the air,
I fall down like stones, and, fallen, brim over myself.
Sponsors
Gemeente Rotterdam
Nederlands Letterenfonds
Stichting Van Beuningen Peterich-fonds
Prins Bernhard cultuurfonds
Lira fonds
Versopolis
J.E. Jurriaanse
Gefinancierd door de Europese Unie
Elise Mathilde Fonds
Stichting Verzameling van Wijngaarden-Boot
Veerhuis
VDM
Partners
LantarenVenster – Verhalenhuis Belvédère