My tongue is too bitter
for drinking tea.
So it stays empty,
my pretty cup.
The dumplings taste wrong, too,
sour and flat.
Still, the maids pleat them,
leaving me out.
I can’t bear the guitar:
twang hurts my ears.
and books are no comfort:
can’t fix my eyes.
But now in the lamplight,
rice paper glows.
The ink still looks glossy,
true panther-black:
white sun ends at the mountains,
yellow river flows into the sea;
to survey the whole thousand miles,
climb again, one storey more.
So, somewhere, a tower,
sea, river, hills.
The view from the summit:
miles of space.
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