Ten years to master a spear,
A hundred to master the sword,
But an eternality to master the brush.

A spear, I used, to hold a fortress,
A sword unsheathed, the heavens fears,
But a brush in hand, ten thousand enlightened.

Ah, is not the spear a weapon of soldiers,
The sword, the hero's friend,
At last, the brush is the sage's kin.

Why shed blood of a thousand men,
Why not teach immortals and men.