it’s been ages, since I retired
from the palaces of ambitions and envy
and the centers of power

unyoked myself of all relations
and what is praised as love
but is the self seeking satisfaction
in the other

and removing myself came here
in discrete voluntary exile
built myself
a little home
amongst the mountains and solitary woods

and the humble folk since offer me food
and provisions
for what I might teach their children
of calligraphy and brush work


the years have gone past in non-action and peace;
but here too there is the occasional tension:
a road to be built to the Capital City
demanded trees and woods and two hills;
and the soldiers and distant police turn up at the doors
to inquire who lives here
and why I am alone


but still, the years pass gentle
and my silence and solitude
time offers me
with a smile