The Xu, the Fruitful Emptiness between Lovers’ Brushstrokes

 

Autumn birds gather into flocks,
and flocks into waves and scarves,
disclosing little, hiding much—

whoever is mortal
commonly strives
for the measure,
straining against it—

but gods—gods alone,
if true—may be at ease,
themselves bearing the measure,
though they did not set it;

and yet both mortals and gods
cannot but admire, deep down,
musicians and poets—those who hone,
their whole lives through, measure’s clear tone,

never turning away from sounding it,
ever seeking to bring it forth—
like the soul’s own pulse,
with the husk removed:

for flower and fruit.