WHAT THE MASTER SAID
TO THE GRASSHOPPER
Foolish
nymph,
I’ve
been writing forty years,
You,
but a butterfly’s life-time,
Of
course your poetry
Sounds
different than mine.
Tens
of thousands of hours
I’ve
labored, struggled,
Ulysses-like.
I’m still not home.
Work
your craft a thousand hours,
A mere beginning, but
At
least by then, you’ll feel
The
gravel of the road, your road,
Not
mine.
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