Ci

Two distinct groups of ci, with the Chinese source text and translation shown together where applicable.

A1 B1 A2 B2 B3 B4 B5 A3 A4 A5 A6 A7 B6 A8 B7 A9 outside9 Sep1 2

Sixteen Poems of A and B

A sixteen-poem cycle written by one author in two voices, A (甲) and B (乙). A usually gives a detailed prefatory account; B’s first five poems are untitled. The cycle is dated 9 June 2026. One out-of-cycle poem dated 1 July follows as an appendix. The author’s annotations are available on request.

甲乙十六首

甲一《臨江仙 · 與同硯燈下夜坐，侵曉方別》

幾度深宵同默坐，孤燈紅淚垂遲。一秋心緒有誰知。啓窗星欲墜，光落兩人衣。不語各含無限思，而今惟道相期。夜闌暗忘漏聲移。慵來還指日，明日又今時。

To the tune of Linjiangxian · Sitting with a fellow student by lamplight at night; parting only at dawn

How often we sat together silent, deep into the night; the lone lamp’s red tears slow to fall. Who is there to know the feelings of a whole autumn? We open the window: a star about to fall, its light upon both our clothes. Silent, each holding thoughts without end; now we say only that we will meet again. The night grows late; unnoticed, the water-clock moves on. Languid now, we still name a day: tomorrow, at this same hour.

乙一《無題 · 臨江仙》

虛廊月好人初定，同攜花徑遲遲。燈前笑語兩無疑。舊衾隨手與，今日不須知。客散非因誰獨在，他人皆自相依。席旁偶坐共相棲。漏殘晨露上，風過落花時。

Untitled · To the tune of Linjiangxian

The moon is bright in the empty corridor; people have only just settled. Together we take our time along the flowered path. By the lamp we laugh and talk, neither of us in doubt. The old quilt, handed over casually. Today, there is no need to know. The guests disperse, but not because anyone is left alone; the others each have someone of their own to lean on. By chance we sit beside the table, and there we roost together. The water-clock runs low; morning dew gathers. Wind passes, as petals fall.

甲二《臨江仙 · 醉後扶靨登樓，夤夜同倚，人問不避》

沈醉曾扶相並倚，登樓未肯人知。今宵燈影漸迷離。漏殘催曙色，猶帶靨邊緋。同擁寒衾還細話，當筵曾許心期。醒來可認醉中辭？朝霞渾未記，宿霧已盈墀。

To the tune of Linjiangxian · After wine, cheek supported as we climbed upstairs; leaning together far into the night; when people asked, not evading them

Deep in drink, we steadied one another and leaned side by side. We went upstairs, unwilling to let others know. Tonight the lamplight grows indistinct. The water-clock runs low, hastening the dawn; a flush still lingers at the dimpled cheek. Together under the cold quilt, still talking softly; at the feast, a promise of the heart was once made. Awake, will what was said in drink still be acknowledged? I remember nothing of the morning’s rosy light. Night mist has already filled the steps.

乙二《無題 · 踏莎行》

一室香温，兩痕影並。笑聲沉入簾間暝。隔簾燈色欲先寒，有人暗處衣光冷。欲喚還休，歡猶未省。分明一水無舟艇。殘灰散盡各歸時，餘釭獨照空庭靜。

Untitled · To the tune of Tasuoxing

A room warm with scent; two traces of shadow side by side. Laughter sinks into the dark between the curtains. Beyond the curtain, even the lamplight seems the first to chill; someone in the dark, the light on their clothes grown cold. About to call out, then holding back; the beloved still unaware. One stretch of water, plain to see. No boat. As the last ash scatters and each goes home, the remaining lamp alone lights the still, empty courtyard.

乙三《無題 · 臨江仙》

燭暗蛩寒簾影瘦，殘酲猶帶微温。筆停紙澀墨先吞。未緘還自疊，一折一重門。不是東風先折取，恐花為我辭根。新痕舊鑰莫輕論。相逢原是客，客受主家恩。

Untitled · To the tune of Linjiangxian

Candle dim, crickets cold, the curtain’s shadow thin; the wine’s last haze still holds a little warmth. The brush stops. The paper resists. The ink swallows first. Still unsealed, I fold it up again; with each fold, one more door. It is not that the east wind broke it off first; I fear the flower may leave its roots for me. Do not speak lightly of new marks and an old key. When we met, I was only ever a guest; and a guest receives the kindness of the house.

乙四《無題 · 渡江雲》

清銅新樣齒，欲封還止，殘熱指間彈。忽燈前小影，緘淺香微，半晌已潸然。綢繆一晌，轉覺是、別處温言。空鑄得、舊模新鑰，紋疊總相沿。更闌。啼痕自拭，燭燼重挑，奈宵長箋短。謄復塗、深言怕誤，淺字偏安。明朝銅色經他手，便認作、一諾窮年。燈滅後、丁寧只是加餐。

Untitled · To the tune of Dujiangyun

Bright copper, teeth newly fashioned. About to seal it, I stop; still warm, it is flicked between my fingers. Suddenly, a small shadow before the lamp; the letter lightly sealed, its scent faint; and in a moment the tears have come. A spell of tenderness; then the sense that these are warm words belonging elsewhere. In vain I have cast a new key from the old mould; the grooves, layer on layer, all follow the same lines. The night wears late. I wipe away the tears, trim the wick again. What can be done: the night so long, the paper so short. Copy out, cross out again; I fear the deeper words may be misread; plainer words stay safe. Tomorrow, when the copper passes into the other’s hands, it will be taken for a promise good for a lifetime. After the lamp is out, all I urge is: eat well.

乙五《無題 · 十六字令》

銅。鑰齒新裁付掌中。天寒了，加飯且從容。

Untitled · To the tune of Shiliuziling

Copper. A key, teeth newly cut, placed in your palm. The cold has come. Eat well, and take your time.

甲三《鷓鴣天 · 卿贈鑰，附書數字，燈下展讀》

鑰齒新裁心自珍，提毫未寫已逡巡。拆來只有三行字，半晌綢繆一晌嗔。星欲墜，露初勻。當時未敢喚真真。案前字暖春封淺，猶有殘香繞指温。

To the tune of Zhegutian · You gave me a key, with a note of a few words enclosed; unfolded and read by lamplight

Teeth of the key newly cut; I treasure it. I lift the brush; before a word is written, already I hesitate. On opening it, only three lines of writing. A while of tenderness, a spell of pique. A star about to fall; the dew just settling evenly. Back then I dared not call out to Zhenzhen in the painting. Warm words on the desk, the spring letter lightly sealed; a lingering scent still curls warm round my fingers.

甲四，憶甲一《臨江仙 · 曩與同硯默坐數夕，別後音塵寖薄，久乃自定》

曾共虛廊默坐，當時只道尋常。孤燈紅淚共商量。不知秋已半，但覺夜初長。別後音書都杳，逢人怕説西窗。偶因殘夢溯流光。思忘還入枕，避跡反成雙。

To the tune of Linjiangxian · Recalling A1: once I sat silent for several evenings with a fellow student; after parting, news grew scarce, and only after a long while did I settle myself

Once we sat together silent in the empty corridor; back then I thought it only ordinary. The lone lamp’s red tears joined in our counsel. I did not know autumn was half gone; I only felt the nights begin to lengthen. Since parting, letters and news have vanished. Meeting people, I am afraid to speak of the west window. Now and then a broken dream carries me back upstream through the years. What I would forget comes back with me to the pillow; shunning every trace, I find myself paired with it still.

甲五，憶甲二《臨江仙 · 記醉後扶靨登樓，夤夜人問，始無避焉》

曾倚微醺乘月，並肩同倚更闌。當筵人問不曾瞞。雪泥誰去早，此後各風煙。別處星辰未改，人間幾換流年。舊潮猶帶醉時顏。思忘成此闋，相對鬢先斑。

To the tune of Linjiangxian · Recalling A2: after wine, cheek supported as we climbed upstairs; when people asked late that night, for the first time nothing was evaded

Once, leaning on a little wine, we went by moonlight; shoulder to shoulder, leaning together as the watch ran late. At the feast, when people asked, I did not conceal it. On the snow and mud, who was first to leave? From then on, each in our own wind and mist. Elsewhere the stars have not changed; down in the world, how many years have turned over. The old tide still carries a face flushed with wine. The wish to forget has become this lyric; face to face, our temples are the first to grey.

甲六，憶甲三《鷓鴣天 · 篋中故鑰銅花滿眼，追念往還書字，悵然有作》

小鑰經年鏽暗生，故箋翻罷眼猶明。當時避卻鴛鴦字，卻把鴛鴦寫幾層。窗月冷，鬢霜驚。如今畫裏喚誰名。相看似隔前生事，齧盡痴根草又青。

To the tune of Zhegutian · Recalling A3: the old key in the box, covered in verdigris; thinking back over the letters exchanged, I wrote this in melancholy

A small key: with the years, rust has darkly grown. The old letters read through, my eyes are still bright. Back then, the words “mandarin ducks” were left unwritten; yet mandarin ducks were written in, layer upon layer. Moon cold at the window; frost at the temples, a shock. Now, in the painting, whose name is there to call? Facing one another, as though across a former life. The root of longing gnawed away to nothing; the grass is green again.

甲七《臨江仙 · 分蕙寄某，憶昔贈蘭蓀時，惘然有作》

手分舊蕙移新種，如今可記春温。當初玉指贈蘭蓀。不知根已定，空自換苔痕。別後西窗青幾度，也應灌溉朝昏。爾來各自長年輪。偶然風過處，依約暗香聞。

To the tune of Linjiangxian · Dividing an orchid to send to someone; remembering the time the fragrant herbs were given; written in wistfulness

By hand I divide the old orchid for new plantings. Now, is the warmth of that spring still remembered? Back then, jade fingers gave the fragrant herbs. I did not know the roots had already taken hold; only the traces of moss kept changing, to no purpose. Since parting, how many times has the west window turned green? You too, I suppose, water at dawn and dusk. Since then, each of us has grown our own rings of years. Where a wind happens to pass, a faint scent, just discernible.

乙六《得某所寄》

故盆移蕙草，幾度誤春痕。鄰圃分新種，行人折故根。窗虛留寸土，門掩各朝昏。別後遷新邑，經年異故園。囊空行愈遠，塵積逐年增。盆碎無遺瓦，殘根失所憑。君書今日至，手尚帶春泥。稚女描新帖，盆花落漸稀。虛廊月正好，燈下話綢繆。窗前蕙草綠，檐外晨露稠。更殘人未散，深意眼中收。君書千里至，字字是舊秋。展卷心先遠，擱筆無可酬。非是無一字，風過落花休。掩卷天將暮，稚女索殘詩。舊盆花事盡，春至又生枝。澆水成前事，素心終不移。君舟向滄海，我亦有天涯。

On receiving what was sent

In the old pot, the orchid transplanted; more than once, spring’s trace went awry. The neighbouring garden takes a new division; a passer-by breaks off an old root. At the empty window, an inch of earth remains; behind the closed door, each to our own dawns and dusks. After we parted, I moved to a new town; years passed; nothing like the old garden. With an empty purse I go farther still; dust accumulates with every year. The pot breaks, leaving not one shard; the roots that remain have nothing left to hold. Your letter arrived today; spring mud still on my hands. My little daughter copies from a fresh writing model; the potted blossoms fall and thin. The moon was bright in the empty corridor; by the lamp we spoke in tenderness. Orchids green before the window; thick morning dew beyond the eaves. The watch ran low; no one had left; deep meaning gathered in the eyes. Your letter has come a thousand li; every word an autumn long ago. I open the pages, my heart already far away; I set down the brush; there is no answering in kind. It is not that I have nothing to say; wind passes; fallen blossoms rest. I close the pages; dusk is coming. My little daughter asks for the leftover verses. In the old pot the flowers are over; spring comes, and shoots grow again. The watering is a thing of the past; the plain heart, after all, has not changed. Your boat heads for the open sea; I too have a horizon of my own.

甲八《夜聞舊曲》

當時窗下別，今作檐前雨。怕聽舊時曲，聲聲催天曙。餘音不肯絕，繞作迴腸縷。一燈寒在壁，照壁如照汝。昔我今何在，孤影各茫然。推窗山似海，萬古一微弦。此聲殊未已，人世不知年。側耳疑相答，餘音何處傳。

Hearing an old tune at night

Then, a parting beneath the window; now, rain before the eaves. I fear to hear the old tune; note after note hastens the dawn. The lingering sound will not break off, winding into threads that twist the heart. A lone lamp, cold against the wall; lighting the wall as though lighting you. Where is the self I was, now? Lone shadows, each at a loss. I push the window open: mountains like a sea; all the ages, one faint string. This sound has still not ceased; here in the world, no reckoning of years. I turn an ear, unsure if something answers. Where is the lingering sound carried?

乙七《忘川 · 檢篋得舊稿，不復攜，悉以寄某，並題》

燈下讀舊詞，夜深方得眠。當時渾不異，往事付流年。我又移新處，君猶理舊篇。小兒催入夢，蕙草立窗前。莫攀檐前柳，莫數落花天。忘川人自渡，各自有歸邊。

Wangchuan, the river of forgetting · Searching the box, I found old drafts; rather than carry them further, I sent them all, with these lines

By lamplight I read the old poems; only deep in the night could I sleep. Back then, none of it seemed any different; what has passed I give over to the years. I have moved somewhere new again; you still put the old pages in order. The child hurries me towards sleep; the orchid stands before the window. Do not reach for the willow before the eaves. Do not count the days of falling petals. Each crosses the river of forgetting alone; each has a shore to come home to.

甲九《鷓鴣天 · 得某所寄舊稿，燈下讀竟，與篋中所存合編，第其甲乙。裝成，客至輒出以相示，題其尾》

兩疊殘箋一夜看，當時燈影共成篇。親將一線縫卿我，留得鴛鴦傍脊眠。茶屢冷，燭頻殘。尊前話到漏聲闌。每逢座上人微哂，指點卿行在我邊。

To the tune of Zhegutian · On receiving the old drafts sent to me, I read them by lamplight, combined them with those kept in my box, and arranged them as A and B. Once bound, I brought them out whenever a guest called, and wrote this at the end

Two sheaves of old pages, read through in one night; under the lamplight of those days, together they make one volume. With my own hands, one thread to stitch you and me together; and keep the mandarin ducks asleep beside the spine. Tea grows cold again; the candle burns low again. Over wine, talk runs on till the water-clock runs out. Whenever someone at the table gives a faint smile, I point: your lines, here at my side.

集外 · 甲十《中呂 · 山坡羊 · 又過舊廬》

風迎面，人立此，鼻尖一動魂先至。認不真，卻認真，繞來繞去街角立。廿年風霜渾不記，這點子氣味偏惦記。遲，是誤了；歸，也是誤了。

Outside the cycle · Zhonglü · To the tune of Shanpoyang · Passing the old house again

Wind in the face. Stopped here. The nose moves first — the soul arrives before I do. Can’t be sure it’s real; am sure anyway. Round and round the corner of the street, and standing still. Twenty years of weather, none of it kept — this little bit of smell, kept. Too late — that was the mistake. Coming back — that was the mistake too.

9 September 2026 · two poems

A separate pair, not part of Sixteen Poems of A and B.

《鷓鴣天 · 連夕燈下試筆，未竟》

幾夕簾前共剪燈，平生話到又三更。從頭説盡還存半，且任宵深硯自凝。言漸杳，露初零。獨餘一語未分明。頻頻蘸得毫端黑，墨至濃時偏不成。

二〇二六年九月九日

To the tune of Zhegutian · Several evenings at the lamp, trying to write; unfinished

Some nights, before the curtain, we trimmed the lamp together; a whole life talked through, and again it was the third watch. Told from the beginning, told to the end — half of it still there. Let the night go deep; let the ink congeal in the inkstone by itself. The words thin out. The dew begins to fall. One phrase alone is left, and it will not come clear. Again and again the brush-tip comes up black; when the ink is thickest, it will not make the words.

《臨江仙》

簾影幾宵長共話，露痕初濕闌干。言猶未了息先安。夢深渾不覺，月上夜將殘。他日重簾垂到地，垂來一似從前。手臨燈畔數迴旋。明朝風或緊，窗且掩周全。

二〇二六年九月九日

To the tune of Linjiangxian

Shadow of the curtain, several nights of long talk; the first dew wetting the rail. The words not finished — the breathing settled first. Deep in dream, knowing nothing; the moon up, the night nearly gone. Some other day the heavy curtain will fall to the floor, fall exactly as it did before. A hand beside the lamp, turning a few times. Tomorrow the wind may blow hard; for now, shut the window well.