
The Deserted Village
Here as I take my solitary rounds, Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruined grounds, And, many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew – Oliver Goldsmith
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Here as I take my solitary rounds, Amidst thy tangling walks, and ruined grounds, And, many a year elapsed, return to view Where once the cottage stood, the hawthorn grew – Oliver Goldsmith
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Each red petal, A wine-boat, adrift— Raise it, slow, Not to spill What’s left of the day. - Jujube, inspired by Ge Lifang (d.1164)
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A language of loss and renewal, etched in the mist. The willows lean in, trailing ink across the shore. What we remember is always half-shadow, half-dream – The lake holds it all.
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To fling my arms wide In some place of the sun, To whirl and to dance Till the white day is done. – Langston Hughes
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The mist chills the music notes, wind barely stirs the robe — drenched in dew-light we stand, seeped in silence - Jujube, inspired by Zhu Dunru (1081-1159)
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