versions, from the Chinese, by Peter Stombler
Life, that inebriate, stumbling through the day,
Pursues, not catching one, the fleet-footed years.
And then, burial beneath a shroud of flowers
Which admit not one moonbeam to your dark grave.
And when your bones have splintered, your skin decayed,
Your two souls will have no you for firmament.
Though once your jaws bit off steely words,
You’ll have no mouth, or stomach, to read the Tao.
Copyright World Poetry, Incorporated Jul/Aug 2003
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