It comes about that the drifting of these curtains
Is full of long motions, as the ponderous Deflections of distance; or as clouds Inseparable from their afternoons; Or the changing of light, the dropping Of the silence, wide sleep and solitude Of night, at which all motion Is beyond us, as the firmament, Up-rising and down-falling, bares The last largeness, bold to see.
and this is what i see through that window, the ugly communist blocks strangely made beautiful by light and haze. the window as a kind of filter, used to alter reality (like the smoke of grass), for those who live off imagination and dream? perhaps.
The lascivious air of Spring Overflows the narrow garden Beyond my open windows. Across the pulsating curtains Confused flower shadows flicker. All alone in the summer house, Wordless, I stroke a rose jade lute. Far off in the lingering early Twilight a cliff falls from a mountain. The faint wind breathes with a light rain, Delicate as a falling shadow. O, pepper plant, you do not need To bow and beg pardon of me. I know you cannot hold back the day.