All rivers return to the
ocean. We rise from nothingness and return to it. I just read a story in the
newspaper about the number of immigrants to the United States that return to
their own countries once they become older. We long for the familiar or for the
distant that we cannot touch right now. They say you can’t go home again and in
some senses this is true. I recently came back from a visit to where I was born
and lived for many years. The name of the town is still the same, but the town
is not the same. Surroundings, stores, the people who were there are now
different. It is home yet it can never be home again. Many of us miss the old
world, the old ways but are powerless to revisit them unless it is in the mind,
only the mind.
When young, I'd not
enjoyed the common pleasures,
My nature's basic love
was for the hills.
Mistakenly I fell into
the worldly net,
And thus remained for
thirteen years.
A bird once caged must
yearn for its old forest,
A fish in a pond will
long to return to the lake.
So now I want to head to
southern lands,
Returning to my fields
and orchards there.
About ten acres of land
is all I have,
Just eight or nine rooms
there in my thatched hut.
There's shade from elms
and willows behind the eaves,
Before the hall are
gathered peaches and plums.
Beyond the dark and
distance lies a village,
The smoke above
reluctant to depart.
A dog is barking
somewhere down the lane,
And chickens sit atop
the mulberry tree.
The mundane world has no
place in my home,
My modest rooms are for
the most part vacant.
At last I feel released
from my confinement,
I set myself to rights
again.
Returning To Live In The
South ---- Tao Qian
