Senlin, A Biography: Part 02: His Futile Preoccupations - 02

It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning     When the light drips through the shutters like the dew,     I arise, I face the sunrise,     And do the things my fathers learned to do.     Stars in the purple dusk above the rooftops     Pale in a saffron mist and seem to die,     And I myself on a swiftly tilting planet     Stand before a glass and tie my tie.     Vine leaves tap my window,     Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,     The robin chips in the chinaberry tree     Repeating three clear tones.     It is morning. I stand by the mirror     And tie my tie once more.     While waves far off in a pale rose twilight     Crash on a white sand shore.     I stand by a mirror and comb my hair:     How small and white my face!     The green earth tilts through a sphere of air     And bathes in a flame of space.     There are houses hanging above the stars     And stars hung under a sea . . .     And a sun far off in a shell of silence     Dapples my walls for me . . .     It is morning, Senlin says, and in the morning     Should I not pause in the light to remember God?     Upright and firm I stand on a star unstable,     He is immense and lonely as a cloud.     I will dedicate this moment before my mirror     To him alone, and for him I will comb my hair.     Accept these humble offerings, cloud of silence!     I will think of you as I descend the stair.     Vine leaves tap my window,     The snail-track shines on the stones,     Dew-drops flash from the chinaberry tree     Repeating two clear tones.     It is morning, I awake from a bed of silence,     Shining I rise from the starless waters of sleep.     The walls are about me still as in the evening,     I am the same, and the same name still I keep.     The earth revolves with me, yet makes no motion,     The stars pale silently in a coral sky.     In a whistling void I stand before my mirror,     Unconcerned, I tie my tie.     There are horses neighing on far-off hills     Tossing their long white manes,     And mountains flash in the rose-white dusk,     Their shoulders black with rains . . .     It is morning. I stand by the mirror     And surprise my soul once more;     The blue air rushes above my ceiling,     There are suns beneath my floor . . .     . . . It is morning, Senlin says, I ascend from darkness     And depart on the winds of space for I know not where,     My watch is wound, a key is in my pocket,     And the sky is darkened as I descend the stair.     There are shadows across the windows, clouds in heaven,     And a god among the stars; and I will go     Thinking of him as I might think of daybreak     And humming a tune I know . . .     Vine-leaves tap at the window,     Dew-drops sing to the garden stones,     The robin chirps in the chinaberry tree     Repeating three clear tones.