As another week concludes, we end with a random poem. Famous poets, obscure poets, amateur poets, whatever poets--just a poem to cap off the week.
Like this one:
Advent of Spring, by Du Fu
The city has fallen: only the hills and rivers remain.
In Spring the streets were green with grass and trees.
Sorrowing over the times, the flowers are weeping.
The birds startled my heart in fear of departing.
The beacon fires were burning for three months,
A letter from home was worth ten thousand pieces of gold.
I scratch the scant hairs on my white head,
And vainly attempt to secure them with a hairpin.
Being a 1,300 year old poem written in a Chinese dialect, there are a number of translations of this (or any) poem by Du Fu. This website has over 50 different interpretations of Advent of Spring alone, showing how varied even literal translations still offer word choice difference in English.
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