Old Cypress

after Tu Fu

In front of Kong Ming’s shrine, there’s an old cypress,

With branches like bronze, roots like stone,

Its frosted trunk streaked with rain, forty arm spans round,

And ink-black hue reaching the sky, two thousand feet high.

Lord and and minister lost their chance long ago,

But everybody still loves that tree.

With clouds, its vapors runs the length of Wu Gorge,

With the moon, its chill reaches the whitecaps of mountain snow.

I remember the road bending east of Brocade Pavilion,

Where the Minister of War and his master now share a secluded palace,

Its canopy soaring above the plains from olden days,

Shading murals deep within vacant windows and doors,

A sprawling foundation dug into the ground,

High and alone in the mysterious heavens, among terrible winds.

What holds it up is bright, divine power.

What keeps it straight is creation’s work.

What if a great house fell, needing new beams?

It’d take ten thousand years to move that mountain.

Even though its secrets remain unrevealed, the world stares on in awe.

It wouldn’t care to be cut down, but who’d do it?

Its bitter heart can’t keep out termites,

Though its fragrant leaves have nested phoenixes.

You schemers and mountain hermits, stop your bitching,

The best wood is hardest to use, always been that way, always will.