The forest is at my feet, and my cottage is still up there.
The fence, already in sight, is hidden again as the path turns.
Someone should be waiting by the door,
Waiting for the new books I bring and the zither repaired.
But I bring only a jug of wine,
For the one waiting has already left.
Clouds on my path and on my clothes,
I’m in someone’s vague thought.
Up here I find neither birds’ song nor flowers’ smiling faces.
I’m in a cold dreamland….
The forest is at my feet, but my cottage is still up there.
The fence, already in sight, is hidden again as the path turns.
— “In Dreamland” by Cheng Chou-Yu (1954)
Li Tai-Hsiang used to say that what coursed through his veins was music instead of blood. If he had not composed the music in his mind, he would not have been able to face himself.
