When last we parted you were not yet married;
Suddenly, your children stand in a row before me!
Happy to welcome their father’s friend
They ask me from where I come,
And before all their questions are answered
Have brought in wine;
Spring leeks are cut in the night rain,
The freshly steamed rice has a sprinkling of yellow millet;
To mark this unlooked-for encounter, my host says,
We must drain ten large cups of wine;
But today even ten cannot go to my head,
So touched by your unchanging friendship am I.
Tomorrow mountains will separate us again,
Neither knowing what the future holds.

When young I left home,
in old age, returned.

I still speak with a local accent,
but my hair is gray.

Village children greet me,
but can’t guess who I am.

They laugh and ask:
“Where do you come from, Sir?”

from “Where the World Does Not Follow”, translated by Mike O’Connor

You’ve arrived
from my hometown,
and must know
of its affairs.

When you departed,
was the winter plum
by the silk-framed windows
blooming?

from “Where the World Does Not Follow”, translated by Mike O’Connor