A hermit’s life requires but little:
a room, a bed, some food and wine. That is all.
The lamp flame on my table
gutters and goes out. I light it once again
and out it goes again – as I wait and wait.
O my friend, why do you tarry so, leaving me alone.
The night air is cool and damp, as I stroll.
Fog gathers in the valleys below. Above me sails the moon.
Along the stream I observe how the grasses,
their long leaves drowned in the waters, sway and sway
like a woman washing her long flowing hair.
I think of her… of years gone by. Of… no, better to forget.
My hand-held lamp sputters and spurts,
wavers and dims. But in the capital city lights blaze,
I am certain that lights blaze
in brilliant cafes full of laughing happy youths
who pursue life and love so eagerly
unaware of loss and disappointment and old age.
So now I live alone far from the city,
a foolish old poet, feasting on the beauty of the night.
contented with simple things:
the moon, a friend, and wine. The oblivion of sleep.
Neal Peterson, January 2015