Inside the Middle Kingdom

31/10/18 Beneath a pale sky of bleakest white, Songs carried by the eastern wind, The faint sounds of flutes and lesser known cries, Reveal a surface less skimmed. The slowest of flicks by a wise older wrist, With contentment despite all the noise, A story to tell at the call of five bells, Displaying of true grace and poise. Manicured plants, slow songs and arts, Early Sundays a skew, To walk on this road, a foreign mind wanders, To feel one of only a few. This once was a place of long pondered dreams, Of esthetic smoke screens, Of mystery wonder and awe, Now shrouded behind bureaucratic decline, Can China be China once more?