Po Chu-I

 

Rising Late

Birds are calling in courtyard trees
and sunlight’s bright in the eaves,

but I’m old, my laziness perfected,
and now it’s cold I rise even later.

It’s my nature: quilts thick or thin,
pillows high or low. They suit me:

spirit at peace, body safe and warm
How many can savor such things?

Once I’ve slept enough, I just sit
looking up, no thoughts anywhere-

as if our senses had never opened
and our limbs were long forgotten.

I think back to someone up early
in Ch’ang-an, clothes frost-stained.

He and I, each whole and sufficient-
who can say which is nothing now?

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