Ancient Scroll
A poet was staying in a far pavilion.
His friend, a philosopher, came to visit.
The philosopher left his mule, supplies, and servant
in a shack at the foot of the mountain.
The servant was afraid, for these mountains
were known to be haunted. But he
was loyal, and the master comforted him,
then began to climb the steps cut in the stone.
Wind battered him, but he gripped the wall
and kept his eyes on the peaks. And with
each step, the rock of the staircase
cried out in pain because the tread
of the philosopher was too firm, and the wind
shrieked because his posture was too erect.
But he said to the wind, Frail as I am
you shall not carry me off, and to the stone,
I cut these steps in you, or my servant did,
so I might visit a friend. And the wind
howled, for his thought was too cold,
and the rock because it was too solid,
and they asked, Are you not supposed
to be wise and realize you’re one with us?
And the master said, I’m one with you
in death, but separate myself
with every step. He had reached by now
the windless ledge where the poet lived,
and the poet came out to greet him.
One wall of the pavilion was mountain rock.
So was the table where the poet wrote.
Ceremoniously, the friends drank.
Tipsy, they walked to the cliff-edge
and watched birds of prey
circle. The gods, perhaps,
mused the philosopher. Strange, said the poet,
I thought they were vultures. Laughing,
they agreed the moment had the makings
of a poem. Returning indoors, however,
the master saw that the poet’s bowl
of ink was empty. He cried,
I could have brought you some
from the city! But the poet, smiling,
struck with the point of a stylus
that lump of mountain where he worked,
and ink flowed into his bowl.
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