The masterThe master by hokcnbi
Peach blossoms bloomed every spring
There again, the old master came
With red paper and black ink
On a street, where the people claimed
They claimed to buy his writings,
And all praised him while buying
"Just a mere move of his hand
Turns strokes into a phoenix dance!"
But fewer buyers came each year
Admirers, where did they go…?
Unused ink laid like black tears;
Red paper dulled in sorrow…
That old master just sat there
Among those who did not care.
On the dull red fallen dead leaves;
There fell soft rain with slight grief.
Another peach blossoms' spring
Yet the old master is not there.
Oh, where are they wandering
Old folks' souls we all forgot?