March
Tuesday 18 January 2011 photo 2/2
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The waves of Tai Chi, the cranes over the fields
The wingbeats heals my soul, pleases my ears
Old worn clothes I bear, People loathes me,
They stare and sneer, but when they’ve filled it to the brim
their future looks grim, not because of fists, but of mists, which clouds their mind
Meditating in my steeple, slowly respirating and rest, awaiting my destiny
To seek the new journey, follow the creek, find the mountain, mellow wisdom
Travel back to cranefilled fields, dualwield my blades, rain falls down on my head, steadily treading back into town, I meet the same people, wanting knowledge, pledging false vows, but I’m heading to the shrine, from whining of people to the lining of silken sheets, I rest finally, even though they saw me as a black sheep, sought to soften their hearts, but they didn’t understand martial art.
Maybe I have this day, found a new start.
their future looks grim, not because of fists, but of mists, which clouds their mind
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