Leaving It to You
Self evident, truth mistakes no thing.
But my heart’s a long way from there
and nothing’s very clear.
Yellow gold is almost burned up
by my desire.
White hair grows beside the fire.
Bitter indecision: choose This, or maybe That.
Even the spirit speaks in riddles
and makes it hard to harvest
the essence of a single day.
Catch the wind while you tether shadows.
Faith, or a man who’ll stand by his word, is
all there is. There is no disputing.
Poem composed by by Wu Pen (Chia Tao) (779-843). English translation by J.P. Seaton.