In the exile of your absence, I remember Po Chü-i
and look for poetry in the emptiness.
Late November snow buries the garden and unfinished chores.
Tomorrow’s sun, gone from the forecast.
In the exile of your absence, I remember Po Chü-i
and look for poetry in the emptiness.
Late November snow buries the garden and unfinished chores.
Tomorrow’s sun, gone from the forecast.