Outside Looking In

Lone Swordsman
Weary. Battle worn. Blood soaked.

He travels the path of solidarity,
With no friends. With no guide.
Under twin moons that gaze only upon him,
As he trudges in old wooden sandals,
The worn lumber splitting under toe,
With every step drawing him both near
And far from home.

He is Hái Xuán, the mysterious black child
Sun of the měi zhōu bào(panther), son of the gē(dove)

He pauses on his journey to write,
On stone, on bark, on river, on sky,
He takes the overtreaded mud and
Produces sculptures that last for a moment.

His hair does not part the wind, but
Coils cautiously around carefully woven
Bands of red and white braided, grown
Beyond the point of comfort, as cracks
Trace his face from eye to cheek, to
Chin and disappear.

(How many this has killed is not certain,
Does anyone count the meals of a lion,
Or for that matter is death really all that bad.)

He arrives at this plane of equlibrium
To find his face on others, on children
In cages with no locks, and he drops
To his knees, only to catch his breath,
Then he draws his sword.