ghost at the well (2)

[lacrimange]

here is my second, more whimsical and much less literal reimagining of Yuan Zhen's eerily touching chinese poem, the pitcher, written circa 800 AD. the original work is understood to be in the public domain now. i've entitled this version "ghost at the well - or - the pitcher in the well" to differentiate it a bit from my more literal version below, and the original 1919 Waley translation. this one, i've made into something like an old sailor's song. all credit to original author Yuan Zhen (also seen as Yuan Chen) and translator Arthur Waley. _lacrimange

ghost at the well
or
the pitcher in the well

in dreams ye may climb
'til ye've reached a plateau
that's wider and vaster
than any ye'll know  
and there to discover
a strange source of eau:
a stonewell that's deeper
than any ye'll know
o how the throat burns 
with thirst from the climb
your gaze will soon turn
to those waters sublime
in dreams ye may hover
an' have a look in  
only there to discover 
thy likeness within
reflected there, too
be an old stoneware pitcher
that sinks down to depths
like a rock down a fissure
it seems one lacks rope 
enough to up-haul it
this pitcher that's fallen
into the well's gullet
run then, ye sailor
from village to town
and there seek ye hands
to lower ye down
but tho ye call high 
and though ye call low
not a soul be astirrin'
for none be about
only stray dogs that 
leap at yer throat
like wolves at new lambs
left grazin' on oat
return to th' well-head
aye, circle it true 
sad dreamers ye see 
dream such as come true
quicken the shedding
of each falling tear
for soon ye'll awake
to your sobbing, i fear
awake in your keep
in the quiet of night
when all the world sleep
save a dim candle-light
it flickers and wanes
while spewing green smoke
giving tear-glinting flames
til father time's spoke:
midnight, twelve bells!
wake ye up like the dead
when twelve bells and bad dreams
are bedmates, in bed
that plateau of dreams
where ye glimpsed the deep well
hid a cemetery crypt
where olde spirits dwell
one thousand graves wide 
by one thousand graves long
there they reside
though in slumber e'erlong
the soil unturned lies 
right heavy with stones
while before your eyes
sleep the dead i'their bones
from row to long row
in the ground do they lay
yet betimes the departed
in dreams, visits pay
though all uncorporeal
their way they shall make
to the surface where we dwell
- asleep or awake -
and as ye lay dreaming
of climbing to heights
ye summoned a ghost-bride
from her watery plight 
beside ye she hasten'd
where her pitcher fell
down where she threw it
into that deep well
the water you thirst for
claimed her one true love
when the ship that he sailed
went down in a cove
she foreswore all water
and foreswore the sea
and called on that well
her pitcher to keep
ne'ermore shall i drink
from this well or another
for water's to blame
for the death of my lover!
for deep be this well 
and deeper, the sea
and ne'er shall my love 
return home to me
these words she did utter
as coils flew down
what followed her pitcher
down into the ground
no rope, no pitcher
no water be drawn
aye that were her wish
ere her life had done
so long she has waited
by this well so deep
her thirst to be sated
her promise to keep
as widow she dwelt
til thirst claimed her too
the same thirst ye suffered
for ye dreamed it true
that be the story
of why there's no rope
and why for to drink from
this well, keep no hope
if ye should gaze down
upon your own face
mirrored so deep 
in that watery place
then give ye some thought 
to the sad sorry state
of lovers and dreamers
who've no drink to taste
for dreams are to spirits 
as dreams be to us 
their sad tears hold sorrows
as anchors hold rust