Of a bonsai on a journey of no return;
Like the chorus of a mountain spring
In its relentless surge from within;
Like a dancer flowing with the musicAlways in step, not missing a beat,
Till the music fades into the deafening silence that awaits.
Where men do not speak, neither fame nor riches seek.
For the grinders have ceased because they are few,
And the gates to the streets have shut.
And the light has gone out of the windows,
And day and night as indistinguishable as sunrise and sunset.















