At Guihua Gongyuan
old men fix time to string
and let it fly.
From my perch a mile north,
I watch flight take form—
bats, birds, demons, dragons
rising above tiled roofs,
fettered yet borne by wind
and in pursuit of cloud.
If old men with sore bones
and weary hearts can soar
in winter to such heights,
where might I go, with hair
still scarcely touched by snow?
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