Dear Tu Fu: Much is the same.
Great dragons still hide
in the clouds
Men are clever when it comes
to cutting throats.
The dragons have different names, of course.
Progress, for example is shiny
and very long.
If you were here you’d drive
to the mountains.
You wouldn’t walk.
But dying is still a series
of hurried rest stops.
And the dew glitters in the morning
and women paint their toenails.
War keeps the politicians busy
and as ambitious people age
their mouths rot from the inside out.
You wouldn’t be allowed a boat
if you were drinking,
not in the Emperor’s cities.
But you could take a night flight
to a tropical isle and watch
the fishes eat each other
in blue water startled to perfection
by the moon.
I hope this letter reaches you.
The mail is closely watched.
The enemy is everywhere.
The sound of guns is now almost deafening,
though the emperor’s wife has taken a new lover
and people are hopeful.
As you know few people read
poetry when there’s hope
or when there’s none.