El lugar puede ser China, Argentina, o Estados Unidos (también conocido como "El País Sin Nombre Propio"). Hoy, o hace un milenio. En el campo, o en la ciudad.
La gente, sin embargo, es la misma. Vean (lean) si no.
PD: ¡Viva el mes nacional de la Poesía!
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"Spring at Wu-Ling"
by Li Ch'ing-chao (1084?–1151)
translated by Eugene Eoyang
The wind subsides—a fragrance
of petals freshly fallen;
it's late in the day—I'm too tired
to comb my hair.
Things remain but he is gone
and with him everything.
On the verge of words: tears flow.
I hear at Twin Creek spring it's still lovely;
how I long to float there on a small boat—
But I fear at Twin Creek my frail grasshopper boat
could not carry this load of grief.
