My father drifted late in life, our home's books incomplete.
Wall shelves crumbled, rain-ruined, gnawed by mice in their retreat.
I, ever craving ancient lore, spent ten years mending each sheet.
From grandfather's time they came, his touch still moistening the page.
Down to my own studies, where brush-strength passed from age to age.
The hoard grew vast and ordered, labels spaced on every stage.
Then word of bandits at the gate, their torches lighting up the street.
I pondered in my heart: my humble cottage, bare and neat.
Thatched roof, bare walls—no gold or pearls for thieves to think a feat.
Bandits would know my poverty, and leave my home a seat.
So I buried the volumes deep, sealed cases tight and fleet.
Who knew the demon flame would come, neighbors' homes in ash to meet?
Though my house stood in southern lane, both roof and books faced defeat.
Words of sages through all time, vanished with the smoke's retreat.
All gathered wisdom scattered now, my burning guts in anguish beat.
I pity this frail stumbling self, in all things incomplete.
Once blessed by facing yellow scrolls, daylight brought solace sweet.
Now sitting in desolate silence, my eyes feel doubly fleet.
Nightmares startle from the pillow, worries knotting, no release.
Great thoughts abandon written words, long idleness turns mind obsolete.
I'll join the gardener in the field, blankly shouldering hoe in heat.