Threads of incense drift upwards
unending in my silent room—
a smoky portent, like cracks on a tortoise shell—
nine perfumed plumes twist.
An old mirror hides light with darkness—
embers flare within sullen ash.
The many folds of my silk curtain part—
what is most precious faces the wind.
Hyesim
tr. Ian Haight & T'ae-Yong Ho
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ah!
ReplyDeletethis is the most wonderful Ode to Incense ever imagined... and the gently parting of the silk curtain, it just kills me!
Excellent translation, too. The fragrant traceries of time darken the mirror?
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