The Calligrapher

The Calligrapher

The Calligrapher

 

With every wet character I lose

A little more of myself.

Purged and evaporated from

Soul to brush to vapour,

Disappearing before my own eyes.

 

At Lan Ting I made my first

Brush strokes, coarse and worse than

A child’s yet sharing the child’s

Hope in a new-found purpose.

 

Now I glide and dance on

Smooth paving flags and forget

With each thrust and glide as my

Remaining heart goes into each

And every exhausted stroke –

 

Not for the layman’s delight,

Nor the craftsman’s virtue,

But to ensure each one leaves

This World a little bit purer.

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