Spreading Their Wings
Look at the bird, he spreads his wings,
The image stays like a song I sing.
He flies in a tune above, below,
So rich and free from the toil I know.
For ages I gaze at the sun and moon,
The distant clouds, whose path still looms.
For hundreds of rich, who know not right,
They do no good, but use their might.
Original Chinese Poem
Cutting Wood
How to cut wood?
It’s hard without an axe.
How to find a wife?
It’s hard without a go-between.
Cutting wood… cutting wood…
The rule’s pretty clear:
To find a girl
You need a lot of gifts.
Translated from an anonymous poem in the Shijing, a classic Chinese poetry anthology written around the 7th-11th centuries BC.
