Apologia

At the end of this term, I found myself drawn to the Late Tang,

that Late Tang of China, of the ninth century.

What kind of feeling is the Late Tang?

And to whom am I speaking?

Beneath the moon, a luminous stone,

like the fading thrill of that time,

cool, yet steeped in solitude.

Do you know?

In late spring, the peonies fall,

a skyful of dazzling clouds,

suddenly torn apart, crimson and fleeting.

The Tang Dynasty I adored—

that was how it died.

And then,

a sigh, lingering stubbornly for a thousand years.

Now, we have nothing left—

life and death, love and longing,

time’s drifting light and the ebbing tides,

moonlit nights and scattered fireworks,

the golden wheat of July,

the nameless flowers deep in the mountains...

None of them are as they once were.

Just as the ruins of Rome,

the waves at dusk,

the wind over the moors,

and the tolling of an ancient bell—

all lost, the same way.

History’s wheel has stripped away those lived experiences,

After all, they were never meant to matter.

And yet, I cannot escape this yearning...

So I confide in you, unyielding,

of my nostalgia, your wonder.