To Li Po

by Tom Leopardi

There are — no — 
There were Chinese poets
Who sat on black rocks 
Painted on long white parchment
Near tall pine trees
In gray without gray clouds mornings
Sensing the unspoken word
The unwritten rhyme 
Expecting to find 
Another jar of wine
Another excuse for wasting the day
While the dark raging river roared past where they sat 
Dipping their brush in ink 
Before writing the next line
Of their tightly compact thought poem
That someday would make a slight cracking sound
And let a tiny piercing light
Gray white not gold against the black mountain
Enter into that place in time we believe is now