Rhapsody on Observing the Waterclock
by Pao Chao (d. 466)
translated by Allen Haaheim

Preface

A sojourner made an observation on the clepsydra.

Sighing, stepping back, he said:

“The arrow has the job of reaching far,
      but not the skill to set the distance.
Living life is what we do,
      but controlling it is not our lot.

Therefore, from the perspective of the arrow,
      the bowstring cannot be depended on;
So it is with life, as we observe ourselves:
      the years cannot be relied on.

How sad, then,
      to depend so on an unreliable!

Moreover—
      Sinking petals, close, drift afar,
           light ripples hide and vanish,
      moving the spirit, circumscribing it in care—
           here too from the outside comes the shortening of our lives.

So I ponder over life:
      life is a labour, no more!”

Then I wrote this rhapsody, which reads,

One

I append my sigh flow to the racing years,
      thoughts tassel, bloom on the fleeing months.
Gazing to Ch’u, I knot stems of thoroughwort,
      blow on my pipes, but sing a song of Yüeh.
Sluggish, moving, I touch the sleek gel of my flesh,
      my fine-etched face is reflected, murky and marred.
Shadows form and fall; dark comes, easily, on;
      sadness out of nowhere, and hard to halt.
Over rhodonite-cobbled stair, I ascend the hall,
      to visit the filling, the draining golden containers.
Watch the ripples’ leap, gulped up, then down,
      climbing, sinking, I see the shuddering arrow.

Two

The arrow, having sunk, rises once again,
      ripples surge forever under, never to return.
Pouring into deep hollows, it drips into the ocean,
      flies like lightning flashes, shot on hanging paths.
Cake shut doors and windows, but it knows what heaven holds,
      covered, cloud and fog-bound, yet it plumbs the sunlight.
From the tiny and concealed it shapes centuries,
      caches thousands of miles from the empty and minute.
That, dark and deep, is about to brim over,
      this, bit by bit, gradually dwindling.
I press a hand to my square-inch, never-changing heart, 
      and point to a fragment of light, ever-departing.

Three

Once, the fleeing bird was hurt by the dart,
      now it plummets upon hearing the empty bowstring.
Only by meeting the blade’s edge did it know fear—
      how was it able, then, to sense the unseen trigger?
To feel life pass, blown and bending like grass,
      so too is joy brief, but the grief, incessant.
Keeping pure at heart, always proven by antiquity,
      I embrace the jade likeness of my empty intention.
Ripples, full and deep, flow east,
      the roll and surge of the sun hies west.
Scents fall profuse into slender grasses,
      richly, blossoms drop lush from lofty trees.
After facing the point of the sun’s declining, I sing,
      just upon the byroad’s end, I then burst into tears.
Though one keeps feeding a fire, the fuel renewing, passing it on,
      how can the light, once snuffed out, return to carry on?

Four

I brood through the times, both ancient and present,
      truly little is easy, while much is hard.
Seasons are not detained by the hurtling dart,
      but life is rushing faster than the rolling pellet.
Not only can nothing forestall the Huang Ho headwaters,
      but the wind-blown waves also swell the billows.        
Isolated and fearful, the spirit frets greatly,
      while seldom content, the heart balks and bogs down.
I gaze, standing poised, and brood over the horizon,
      heave a long-drawn sigh, and draw my virile sword.

Five

Oh, the people’s lives, never-ending astray,
      I pity and care for all ensuing.
Death withers and crumbles, there is no second way,
      in life’s ups and downs not one is the same.
It reasons through dim allocations prior to creation,
      gauges dark determinations fixed in Heaven’s order.
Giving mugwort stems in moxibustion but inviting illness,
      as if the bowel were incised, only to raise the malady.
Feelings vary in resource, but all end spent,
      matters diverge in method, but together are lost.
For a while, I quell my will and aloud I sing,
      avail of the mist and rain to reclude in tranquility.

Six

Hence,

I follow the autumn goose, adrift by river ait,
      hie after spring martin mounting the stanchions.
I advance and present poems, disclosing my concerns,
      and withdrawing, set out wine, dispelling sorrows.
Worldly things cannot be great twice,
      seasons do not get to redoubly quicken.
The melilot flowers late, and afterwards wilts,
      hibiscus blossoms early, but prematurely dies.
For the moment I screen out anxiety with happy thoughts,
      and enjoy this feeling—for an inch of time.
Abide by the Huang Ho, Yangtze rivers, now winding, now straight;
      trusting a heaven and earth, one round, one square.
A waterclock full, a waterclock empty—
      but the redolence, everlastingly unbroken.