The Taoist poets

The Taoist poets

There is some hour, where our minds meet
Like boats floating in the same sea
We see the foam and sky
The learning hour, our heart of poetry
We were not predestined to be saved

By literature, the low-bending weight
Like water, the fruit, the crowds in our womb
Our brain was another light, a bright sunrise

And it would not last, the high-time
That was the hour, when we left
Our writing in the sands
The law of our blessed ways
To follow it like a river

Up to the fields of green
The author’s paradise, is when
Kindred writers meet and talk a little

Our ears are more thirsty than our hearts
For new words, vocabularies, expressions
The seashore was something we invented
To become a journey to the future poetry.