Wen Fu, Part IV

4. The Joy of Writing

Writing is in itself a joy,
Yet saints and sages have long since held it in awe.

For it is being, created from a void;
It is sound rung out of profound silence.
In a sheet of paper is contained the infinite,
And, evolved from an inch-sized heart, an endless panorama.

The words, as they expand, become all-evocative,
The thought, still further pursued, will run the deeper.

Till flowers in full blossom exhale all-pervading fragrance,
and tender boughs, their saps running, grow in a whole jungle of splendor.

Bright winds spread luminous wings, quick breezes soar from the earth, and clouds
arise from the writing brushes.