This is a story from China twelve hundred years ago.
![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhew6MlaL6D8N_QV_jKS9VRvicv1PMGvxiUgXn2TU1xE2oN3L9sOnpWQFq5YSa-zC4d6f3ncJa8Jk5b0rtMYPLbO4gw9iaR4_s9JLZ6X_M3mOUizKJsdomVLA9uFxAX8Qt21TlJ1H1CKFjl/s1600/Cherry+blossom+2.jpg)
For thirty years I searched for a master swordsman.
How many times did the leaves fall
and the branches break into bud?
But from the moment I saw the peach blossoms,
I’ve had no doubts.
Centuries later the Japanese teacher Keizan responded with his own poem:
The village peach blossoms didn’t know
their own crimson
but still they freed Lingyun
from all his doubts.