The Snapped Willow
taria to his lips. And as he walked his soul was purged of its last vestige of sadness. From his gorgeous love-rug of flowers he drew peace.
The years rolled on. They piled up one upon the other until Lao Tzu was an old man. But he heeded them not. He lived in solitude, in perpetual silence. Each day he sat before the door of his house. Half in a dream he listened to the singing of the flowers. They sang of young love and rose-colored nights. They kept the soul of Lao Tzu from ageing even though his body shriveled and dried up.
Lao Tzu wrote no more poetry. His fame spread throughout the length and breadth of China.
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