Featured image art “Queen of the realm” by hannah.digiart (@HDigiart)
By Skyink
The river waters, roaring, roaring east, wash away the legends bygone.
Success and defeat, and right and wrong, become empty at the turn of a head.
The green mountains still are, under so many crimson evening suns.
The white-haired angler and woodcutter are used to watching the autumn moon and spring wind.
On an isle in the river, they meet happily, over a pot of cloudy alcohol.
So many things past and present, enter the flow of mirthful conversation.*
There comes a hooded one, a rod within his hand,
Under the chariot sun, upon a reeded bank,
Whereby a river runs, east through a foreign land.
There sits upon a rock, waving a tattered fan,
Hair frazzled and frame gaunt, wearing a broken hat,
Chirping a cheery song, an old dishevelled man.
The old one hears the foot, the old one sees the hood.
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