A and B

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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.

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.

That night, who distinguished guest from host? 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.

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.

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.

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. I unseal the letter, leaving a finger-mark; 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. 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.

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?

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.

Two sheaves of old pages spread before me on the desk; in the lamplight of those days, each had formed a poem of its own. With my own hands, I stitch you and me with a single thread; and leave the mandarin ducks to sleep beside the spine. A guest smiles; speech stays spare. The plainer words on the page say only: eat well. Deeper words, for fear they may be misread, lie veiled layer upon layer; about to call out, then holding back; about to call out is hard.

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.