English
Number 13
As long as the morning breeze opens its hand,
let it loosen a knot from our heavy heart.
Every blossoming the world receives from flowers
comes from the breeze unfolding its breath.
Every pattern and design in that meadow
the breath of the morning breeze has spread open.
You might think the tulip is spring's perfumer,
unsealing a pod of Tartary musk.
The smiling meadow is throwing a feast;
that is why the bud has unfastened its collar.
Who has wounded the heart of the iris,
that it has opened its tongue in complaint?
Out of empty hands, the poor plane tree
spreads its palms like a beggar asking for alms.
Hoping its own flower might grant a little gold,
it opens its hand before it in prayer.
If the cloud held no burning heart within,
why would it pour water from its eyes?