Xiao, I hear, I see, I touch. For thousands of lives I have been here; father sky above my solitary self, I stand, mother earth beneath. The sound of bamboo speaks of what I know and feel. It can be direct, clear, dark, soft or faint, revealing my being brave, at leisure, sorrowed, at ease or lost.
Wild grass is thou humble bamboo, grew on poor soil, happened to be carved into a xiao; straight and empty as thou were, with nodes and root; soul infused, thence is a grass no more.
Thou sound the way thou were, only that it has been heard by no one. Thy utterances are all poetry, which entail hardship and endurance.
Thou teach without preach, from heart to heart, not a word. Nurtured, xiao literati are plain, humble, elegant, warm-hearted, straight, true, merciful and all-embracing. Heavenly, tranquil and yet immensely dramatic is thy voice, as Master Tam Po-shek taught us in his "Xiao Insights in Sixteen Chinese Characters", an easy mind encompasses the whole universe where human spirit is poured into a single focused stream of air.
I make xiao, so I know how to live; I play xiao, which tells my stories; I listen to xiao, then I know one's heart; I treasure xiao, and my soul becomes rich.
Heavenly bodies scattered across infinite space and time, we were and still are specks of dust, sparkling within. This is it. With true hearts, xiao literati learn from thou soulful bamboo, Xiao the master, who knows the Way.