What is this new river of allurement
where waterlilies float together with the moon?
The cranial lobes of an elephant rise from its depths,
and in it grow the trunks of plantain trees and stems of
lotus fiber.
Vikramaditya
What is this new river of allurement
where waterlilies float together with the moon?
The cranial lobes of an elephant rise from its depths,
and in it grow the trunks of plantain trees and stems of
lotus fiber.
Vikramaditya
There is no moon;
the sun has left for lands unknown;
the circle of the stars and planets
has been erased from heaven.
Of day and night
all distinction is obscured.
What is this crime
committed by the serried ranks of clouds!
Yogesvara
Only fools and not the wise
love what they cannot have.
Who but a child seeks to grasp
the moon as it shines in water?
Ravigupta
A pot of wine before me amidst the flowers:
I drink alone–there’s none to drink with me.
Lifting my cup to invite the brilliant moon,
I find that with my shadow we are three.
Though the moon does not know how to drink,
And shadow in vain follows me,
Let me their company for the moment,
For while it’s spring one should be care-free.
As I sing, the moon lingers about;
As I dance, my shadow seems to fly.
When still sober we enjoy ourselves together;
When rapt with wine we bid each other good-bye.
Let us form a friendship free from passions
And meet in yonder distant sky.
Li Po
The stars shone…as if they were zero signs
written in the sky
which was like a hide black with the ink of darkness,
with the Moon as a piece of chalk,
by the Creator reckoning the extent of the universe,
because of the total emptiness (of the universe)
of transmigration…
Subandhu
The moon tonight dreams vacantly, as if
She were a beauty cushioned at her rest
Who strokes with wandering hand her lifting
Nipples, and the contour of her breasts;
Lying as if for love, glazed by the soft
Luxurious avalanche, dying in swoons,
She turns her eyes to visions—clouds aloft
Billowing hugely, blossoming in blue.
When sometimes from her stupefying calm
On to this earth she drops a furtive tear
Pale as an opal, iridescent, rare,
The poet, sleepless watchman, is the one
To take it up within his hollowed palm
And in his heart to hide it from the sun.
Charles Baudelaire
Boarding the boat
I slip off my shoes:
moon in the water.
Siera