A Little Shade

As an era, a nation, a concept
Nonexistent in his day collapses,
The shade of Li He catches me napping—

Hey, you! Can’t you see what is going on
Year after year, by the Sea of Liao-dong?
Whatever can a writer do but weep?—

I stir a little in my dreams. Sickly
Li He, dead by twenty-seven himself,
Dreamed of strapping on a sword and daring

Some deeds worth more than writing poetry.
Ah, Li. He got as far as composing
A few shi concerning such absurd dreams.

In them, his trapped ghost shifts like smoke, keening
A thin lament that’s rather different
Than what I suspect living Li He meant—

Humanity is what is going on,
Year after year, by the Sea of Liao-dong.
I am older than Li will ever be,

And although his ghost is older than me,
I’ve met other ghosts much older than that.
I’ll let my ghost join them. Leave me my nap.