To the tune of Manjianghong · Hoping to hold you back, knowing how it must go

The old split barely sewn, spring wind again presses a guest to stay. The door would close; the curtain’s shadow turns instead, letting spring slip in. The waist has grown thin, yet the garment is still tight; hidden marks all gather on the skin. On the return, I reckon, the old needle will still be there, to sew the new split. The lamp has not cooled; already someone else. The door stays open; the wind grows urgent. Why bother choosing? Everyone through the door is jade. First light and the cold branch run counter in karmic consciousness; Fengcheng and Yuanli ought to sit together. See how it ends: the stitching whole again, no trace.

The water-clock runs out; the bell returns. Where it urges dawn, its lingering sound is still obstructed. The door would close; the shabby collar is about to leave, yet another fine guest is welcomed. Old events come out of the new calendar again; before the steps, wind and rain turn wholly to flute-song. All that fair time, within a single sound—and dust has gathered first. Empty, empty snow keeps the old colour. Light turns easily; the trace is hard to wipe away. However often robes and caps are changed, all are called precious jade. First light and the cold branch run counter in karmic consciousness; Fengcheng and Yuanli ought to sit together. Dawn’s mountain is clogged; daylight’s shadow makes offerings to cold bloom, still without cease.