TANGLED IN ZEN – 西娃 Xi Wa

Xi Wa

Xi Wa 《缠中禅》
TANGLED IN ZEN

I’m carrying a pack of poems to see my master.
In winter, three years since I left him.

He’s smoking cigars, listening to music he sits at the gate.
Takes all five hours to read my poems,
sometimes I think he has passed away.

I love his approval more than my poetry.
So I pour him tea, pat his back; then I light up my cigarette.
“Fine, very fine,” puts my papers aside,
“I am saying, some are not spoiled by your language.”

2013-10-15
Tr. MW, Nov. 2014

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