A brush without ink
Is but the calligraphic decease
In one's own hand. . .
It is a sad end.
The sea of ink
But without a freshly bleach paper
Is what very soon
Is going to be the black dry desert.
The snow-white paper
But without a brush and ink together
Can be likened to a murmured thought
Left unrecorded in the dead of night.
A calligrapher without all writing tools
Is but a spaceman who's gone by the wind
To write the scripts with the fleecy clouds,
Floating on one's memory's waves thru the void.
Ron
Love ya!
Jane
John