I'm reading Bai Yuyi, after having
brought myself back to the world
of dust- not the dust of Buddhism,
but the dust from the rubble of
bombed homes; it sooths, yet he
doesn't offer but partial relief with
his words and the images; his are
visions, wisdom and the tranquil
detachment of a dead man who
had his talent and his faith.
He had a path, I can trail him,
but it was his. It's not enough at
this dusk, a slice of the consolation
he had crafted for himself.
16.06.2024
#Poem #Poems #Poetry #Verse
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