Shanju Fu

If someone ever kills me,
It won’t be for my power
Or my threat to their power, or

For backing the wrong faction.
It’s unlikely I’ll regret
That my execution means

Not dying in the mountains.
We were never important,
My family, nor wealthy,

And, despite its title, this
Is not an exposition
On the state of my estate.

In any case, it’s too late
For me to die in my prime,
Even if I strike it rich.

But I find myself thinking,
Out back of my rented house
In these nondescript suburbs,

While birds make a bright ruckus
And the cat listens to them
With closed eyes and one ear cocked

As it naps in my shadow,
About what wealthy Xie,
Of a noble family,

In and out of court intrigue,
On and off his huge estate,
(About which he wrote his fu

And to which he often tried
To retire permanently
Before his execution

At the age of forty-eight)
Had to say in his preface
To his remarkable poem—

(In paraphrased translation)
“The traces I left and thoughts
I sought, I’m here entrusting

To the person most likely
To appreciate these things.”
Writing is always leaving.