tale of a troubled swan

Swinging my new bamboo fan, tall mountains, steep foggy valleys where the swans gathers, story of thousand moons, carried by winds of people wining and dining, come let's read poetry together, and draw our dreams with ink on the sky drop the sword, a little fan against a steel sword, send your eagle off to sing about the ten thousand rules of humanity, double edged sword hidden beneath bamboo, with just the wave of my fan, it could pierce through the wind and silence the noise I never understand what is being taught, I just want to drink wine from the gourd staring at the sky, paper flowers thrown over my head as my body glide like a butterfly, no care for the world, until the ink splattered on my dreams like blood Until the wind blows off the light from the candle, until then, I will climb the tallest mountain, question the gods, I will paddle my lonely canoe down the stagnant river, I hope the swans aren't troubled? I shake my head 'no' to everything Just me and my ink stained fan, watching the moon go down, I think the coming autumn might be better, this spring used to carve out dreams, winters used to bury bodies, I don't know, I'm just empty headed Ink now in my favorite lilies pond, I'm thinking to drain it and let the rain fall, or fill it with tears?