Listen to the story told by the reed of being separated.
Since I was cut from the reed bed,
I have made this crying sound.
Anyone apart from someone he loves
understands what I say.
Anyone pulled from a source longs to go back.
At any gathering, I'm there,
lingering and laughing and grieving,
a friend to each, but few will hear
the secrets hidden within the notes.
No ears for that.
Body flowing out of spirit, spirit out from body,
no concealing that mixing.
But it's not given us to see,
so the reed flute is fire, not wind.
Leave that empty.