to one who knows me well

I once wrote a poem swearing off poems;
it was 1820; the poem was wordy.

The most pressing things you want to say
have always been hard to say clearly.

So I'll try to say them with cunning words,
but before I can say them, my voice fails.

I seek no forgiveness from the gods,
and would even less speak of it to living men.

To the east of a cloud, one scale exposed,
one claw is exposed on the other side.

But better than showing scale and claw
is to show no claw and scale at all.

More true still of the things I've said--
of scale and claw the lingering trace.

I repent my writings from the very first,
in heart's silence I will strive for Void.

This year I truly swear off poems--
The problem is not that my talent is gone.
['From Spring to Autumn of 1827 Some Things Came to Me Which I Wrote Down Haphazardly {no. 15 in a series}', by Gong Zizhen, trans. by Stephen Owen, in Zen Poems]