When judging the tree by its fruits
The bamboo proponent imputes
             That this grass’s great power
             Lies not with its flower
But deep in its rhizomes and roots

I open window to greet ashen sky,
A shy fellow he is, covered in misty clouds.
Laying in my bed, I douse myself In comfort.
Too comfortable… Watching bamboo spoon falling,
My finger too limped to react,
So I let it thump the floor.

I enjoy the tangy of spring,
tasting plum wine as cherry blossom.
Eastern river is dried bamboo shoots,
a sweet yet melodic taste brings me home.
At the end of the river is where my heart lays;
a vast, endless ocean;
sadly, people only see fishes in little Ju lake;
the river behind the lake,
ocean behind river that's hidden.

swift breeze rolling waves
bamboo flutists trying notes -
symphony in air.

I feel like a stranger
In my home,
In my body;
Invisible and wearing
A sheet over my head.

Unheard by all
Worldly ears,
I’m sure the universe
Turns a blind eye
To my prayers.

I like to relate
Myself to bamboo;
Hollow but strong-
Willed. Lanky and
Filled with watery wisdom.

But quiet,
Oh so quiet.
A deadly weapon
And a shield
Against unlistening ears.

The bamboo forest favors impermanence
Flower petals, thunder, snow flakes
So let the time traveling tourist tell us
We will have something to say about this, later