Roads not yet glistening, rain slight,
Broken clouds darken after thinning away.
Where they drift, purple cliffs blacken.
And beyond — white birds blaze in flight.
Sounds of cold-river rain grown familiar,
Autumn sun casts moist shadows. Below
Our brushwood gate, out to dry at the village
Mill: hulled rice, half-wet and fragrant.
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Comments
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I feel I've read a similar piece before by this same author yesterday or some other past day. I don't feel it's the same one but it speaks of the same thing(s) in it such as 'rain' and 'rice'.
I reckon every day occurances are what is put in one's thought when writing a poetical piece. Fiction lays at another end or on another table.
A good piece that Du Fu has written here.
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