MAO We no longer need Confucius. Let him rot... no curse... Words decompose to feed their source... Old leaves absorbed into the tree to grow again as branches. They sprang from the land, they are alike its food and dung. Upon a rock you may well build your tomb, but give us the earth, and we’ll dig a grave. A hundred years and ears may press hard to the ground to hear his voice. Platonic men freed from the caves of Pao An want to spend their lives in the daylight, to hear the sound of industry borne on the wind: the plow breaking the furrow, cloth pierced by the needle, giant earth movers and these men want to work, not turn back, dazzled, to the dark... Echoes, shadows and chains. Such men will drive away the Yellow Crane at last to harness the Yangtze. Another generation may turn up Confucius’ china guard waiting in bunkers for their lord.