You rock to and fro rhythmically.
Your voice, rising and falling in clear nasal monosyllables,
flows on steadily, monotonously, like the
flowing of water and the flowering of thought.
You are chanting, it seems, of the pious conduct of man
in all ages,
And I know you for a scoundrel.

None the less the maxims of Confucius are venerable,
and your voice pleasant.
I listen attentively....

Wusih


The Story Teller

In a corner of the market-place he sits, his face the target
for many eyes.
The sombre crowd about him is motionless. Behind
their faces no lamp burns; only their eyes glow
faintly with a reflected light.
For their eyes are on his face.
It alone is alive, is vibrant, moving bronze under a sun
of bronze.
The taut skin, like polished metal, shines along his
cheek and jaw. His eyes cut upward from a slender
nose, and his quick mouth moves sharply out
and in.