Men die. My last friend told me that I might find
In the Chinese poets rare complexity
And depth of character. Dull joke, dead friend,
Who can neither commit prolixity
With me again nor reach to touch my hand.
One morning, when the air outside my window
Crackles with birdsong and the smell of pine,
I will set down my brush and let it blot.
I will take up the pot of ink and drink
Pine soot, carp skin, the dark draught of romance
Which, no matter its complex depths, will not
Deliver the cure against what I think.
My tongue could sketch the character for soul,
Tree or mountain. Instead I draw the fool.