Song of the Open Field
A crow with its feathers
is the arrow
A mulberry tree
on the hill is the bow
Shooting skyward
and descending
With a clump of
straw in its beak
Its plain black
garment loose fitting
Rushing headlong into the north wind
I raise this cup
of wine in the open field
And sing a song
to the setting sun
A man may bend being weak of heart
Almost to the
point of breaking
Withered and
thriving unequally
Always railing
against heaven
But the chill
wind does transform
The spring willow will revive once more
Its long branches
to be savored
Like a fine mist
or wisp of smoke
野歌
李贺
鸦翎羽箭山桑弓 仰天射落衔芦鸿
麻衣黑肥冲北风 带酒日晚歌田中
男儿屈穷心不穷 枯荣不等嗔天公
寒风又变为春柳 条条看即烟蒙蒙
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