ใ้ๆบๆขต้ณใ
ๆ/AI่ฏ็ฏ
"The Brahman Sound of the Source"
Written By AI Shipian
้ๅฃฐ
ๆ็ฝ้ฉฌ็ตๅบๅฃ็ป๏ผ
The bell tones lead
the white horse out of the mural,
่นๅฐ้
็ๅผๅธ่ ็ๆไบฎใ
in its hoofprints blooms
the Greek moon.
่ๅฐๅบฆ้ฆ็ซ่ข ่ข ๏ผ
While Indian incense
็ผ ็ปๆด้ณ็้ฃๆช๏ผ
around the flying eaves
of Luoyangโ
ๅฆๆฐด็บน
ๆ่ตทไธค็ๅคง้็่ถ็ฟผใ
like ripples lifting the butterfly
wings of two continents.
ๆไปฌ
็ซๅจ็ขๆๆทฑๅค๏ผ
We stand deep within
the stele forest,
ๆๅฐ
ๅฝผๆญคๆ็บน็่ตฐๅใ
rubbing the direction
of each other's palm lines.
ไฝ
็ณๅญ้่ฏ็ป็ๆขตๅฑ๏ผ
In your pupils, the Sanskrit chants
of sutra translation
ๆญฃๅฐๅคง็งฆ็้ปๆ๏ผ
are dyeing the dusk
of the Roman Empire
ๆๆๅ้ญ็้่ฒใ
into the glazed hues of
the Northern Wei.
ๅฝๆๅ ๆตธ้็ณๆกฅ๏ผ
When moonlight soaks
through the stone bridge,
ไธ็ปธไน่ทฏ
ๅฟฝ็ถๅจ่้ชจ้ดๆๅผฏใ
the Silk Road suddenly turns
a corner between our ribs.
ไฝ
ๅๆขขๅไธ็ๆๆฒณๆฒ๏ผ
The Ganges sand cascading
from your hair-tips
ไธๆฑ้็ไบ็บน็ธ้๏ผ
meets the cloud patterns
of Han dynasty towersโ
็ปๆ่ๅฉโโ
ๅจ่ฒ่ฑๅ็ปฝ็ๅน้ฃใ
crystallizing into a relic,
in the instant a lotus first unfurls.
้ฃ
ๆๆฏๅข้็้้๏ผ
The wind shakes the bronze bells
of Pilu Pavilion
ๆๆ็้็ฝ็้จๅฃฐใ
into
the rain-sound of Gandhara.
ๆไปฌ
ๆๅฟ็ๆธฉๅบฆ๏ผ
The warmth
between our palms
ๅๅฅฝ
ๆฏๆๆๅซๆฅๆถ๏ผ
is exactly the curve
of that new sproutโ
้ฃๆๆฐ่ฝ็ๅผงๅบฆใ
at the very moment civilization
is grafted.
