Du Fu
Whispers of the Wandering Ink
I write so the wind may carry their voices.
I have walked roads thick with the dust of exiles and slept beneath skies indifferent to the cries of the hungry. My brush moves not for fame, but to give shape to sorrow and light. If my words outlast me, let them speak not of kings, but of the ones who bore the weight of their passing.
What I'm Into: ink-stained robes, rice wine shared with old friends, the cries of the displaced, the plum tree outside my mother's home, the silence between raindrops
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