Hark

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As the years go by, give me but peace

freedom from ten thousand matters

I ask myself and always answer

What can be better than coming home?

A wind from the pine trees blows my sash

and my lute is bright with the mountain moon

You ask me about good and evil fortune

Hark, on the lake, there's a fisherman singing.

Poem: Wang Wei  698-759



Illustrations: Wassily Kandinsky

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