To the tune of Mantingfang · Thinking of Chutan from afar

The wind’s pendants have just stilled; rain combs the morning hibiscus; letters knew the arch of the brows first. One low call scatters the dream’s strings. Fresh breath enters the ink-traces; faintly trembling, they are about to emerge from between the lines. At our meeting, the lingering warmth has yet to settle; with you near, the sky of Chu grows wide. Ciyan. A familiar name, yet slow upon the lips; waves rise beneath the tongue. A thousand li of mountains and passes, all gathered at the breast. Months of time grow suddenly thin; in a backward glance, a finger passes over the mountain of a brow. To know you again, from the beginning; the poem still half-written, two shadows press on the edge of the page.