The brush笔

A curled leaf, wrapped in mountain mist and morning fog,
uncurls its body in boiling water,
shedding its shy creases,
unfurling all its tenderness.

The meeting of leaf and water
is a fated union.
It asks no name,
makes no distinction between good or evil, beauty or ugliness,
but pours clear bitterness and mellow sweetness
evenly into every cup.

Some sip lightly and understand:
this is joy, aged in time’s hidden cellar.
Some gulp it down,
leaving only bitterness on their tongue.
But those who truly know
can hear the leaf whisper in the water,
telling stories of its growth
and the purest taste of life.

Wisps of tea mist rise,
as if smiling upon the many faces of human life.
Silent always,
it hides the truth
in every sip,
awaiting the destined heart
to read slowly and savor deeply.

The beauty of calligraphy
is like a silent poem,
a painting alive with movement.
On a sheet of xuan paper, ink releases its fragrance,
the brush glides like a dancer on tiptoe,
leaving gentleness and resilience,
the feelings of the heart flowing through horizontal and vertical strokes.

Its beauty lies in spirit:
a dot falls like a boulder from a peak,
a horizontal stroke like ranks of clouds stretching a thousand miles,
a vertical stroke like a withered vine ten thousand years old.
Together these varied forms
compose living characters,
carrying the weight of millennia,
of history and culture.
Through ink and brush
you converse with the ancients,
you resonate with Heaven and Earth,
you touch the still strength within.

The beauty of calligraphy
is found as well in the living flow of brushwork,
like walking meditation, like Chan contemplation:
Spreading the paper, grinding the ink, lifting the brush, setting it in motion—
every gesture relaxed and aware.
It is a ritual through which life turns inward,
the flowing beauty of our deepest nature.