Poem: Hsi Chou

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Broken Tablets

A slice
Of precious stone
The pressing cold has split.
In the fallen script
I see broken bugs.

Sinking
At a distance
On the hill's grass edge, or half-revealed
In an icy stream, deeds writ down, how
Could the people exist? Years
Melted away, their affairs
Already empty.

I only hear
Cypress on the wrecked
Mound mourn together,
As the grieving wind
Rises.

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