It is blankness from human language that was lost or forgotten. English Alibris ID: 16496945456 Shipping Options: Standard Shipping: 3.99. We have new and used copies available, in 1 editions - starting at 6.39. Denis Mair (Translator), Peter Shiao (Translator), Judith Simon Prager Phd (Introduction by) online at Alibris. It is an enduring disappearance, possibility of an ongoing instant It is existence that cannot exist Like ripples that flash across nothingness Poetry is the dimmed fire of embers, it is the transparent vault of sky Poetry searches for those it owns, to follow its incarnations Poetry is the beginning of silence, it denies that 1+1=2 Poetry does not approve of masks, lets us sense the sighs behind them Poetry is an offering of three to the universe, or even more It is the rending of autumn air by crickets, it is a golden droplet Shaken from a turtledove's wing. Buy On the Wings of Phoenix Rising: A Journey from Ashes to Joy by Prof. How wonderfully odd, that mid-way in its course It cannot summon up scenes from its bay of arrival Stars and dew, breeze and daybreak are refracted With trembling brilliance through a soul, and that is poetry. It is an alternative exploit of discourse, a plummeting. It embarks for a goal, but has no definite harbor. Simply drag and drop your document into the form, the online document translator will detect the document’s original language as 'Chinese (simplified)', then select 'English' as the language you want it translated into, then just click the 'Translate' button. It does not like to stroll Where logic makes a home, for that is a place That refuses the buzz of bees, the trumpet of a shepherd Poetry is a twining wreath of smoke, shadowed on a paper window Instead of the body of a bird It is a gray memory of flight. Mair, Timothy Connor, Denis Mair, E-tu Zen Sun, Zhang Liqing, Yin Binyong, Duan Xiaoping, Xu Wenkan, Li Weiping, Li Ye. Its noiseless chronometer does not record Distinctions of life and death it stands against antipathy But also against unification. By Jidi Majia Translated by Denis Mair Poetry itself has no origin, like a spell of fog It has no color, because it underlies colors It is language in free-fall, a staircase of shadow Not climbing to the perfect lines of a dome.
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