The black bamboo fronds reached high and low br Swinging to every blustery blow of the westerly br Up and down, to and fro, left and right br But rising to straighten not staying low for long br Like erect whips snapping lively at impassive clouds br Lashing out against phantom scars and imagined foes br br With momentary lulls they spring back to uprightness br The tiny tenants at its lower branches stir and chirp br As if a siren sounded the respite and the return of the calm br The bamboo shed encrusted scales relieving the itch br Caused by the constant strain of heaving, stooping and rising br Then it stooped so low, creaked and broke its battered bole br br Not even the sparrows at the bowers could, despite their cheering br Restore its poised air and proud bearing br The waste left by an unbending and unyielding pride br The litter of the green flaky rust lay on sodden floor br Who is to clean up? Who is to wield the broom? br No, not us.