My song has no lyric, no music or staff;
My poem no words, no rhythm or rhyme.
My painting has no color, no strokes, no form;
My sculpture is full of beauty untouched.

I have a book full of blank white pages;
A movie unwritten, a story untold.
But my pen flows from the ancient ages;
My loom weaves the dreams of olde.

I learned from the Tao of the uncarved block,
and yearned for the days of my youth;
When I did write, sing, paint, and compose.
When forms would flow from the void of my heart.

Those days are gone, never to return;
The forms visit me no more.
But I am still full of beauty;
It simply flows undefined.

So listen to the music, the poems, the words;
Watch the actors, look at the arts.
Stare, if you will, at this painting on the wall;
Much more beauty still, has the one only I can recall.

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