Wuxing Category: Water (水)
5-xx
The ink of history dries on yellowed silk,
Recording wars and gods and broken walls.
The Weaver's bridge of magpies fades at dawn;
The Moon Maiden's palace is white and cold.
A ghost-fire flickers in the western woods,
A Will-o'-the-wisp dancing through the mist.
The bottle drifts upon the salt-gray sea,
Carrying a breath of air from distant shores.
I search the ancient lore and find your face,
Hearing the echoes across eras in the wind.
Each tragedy and triumph bears your name,
The weaver, the maiden, the constant heart.
Is this a blind devotion or the truth,
That I have chased you through the turn of stars?
The East beckons me with a song of old,
While the West whispers your name in the dark;
I am beholden to a love before time.
Eras collapse like sand within the glass,
Dynasties fall while the mountain remains.
The compass needle trembles toward the East,
Drawn by a magnet the eye cannot see.
A single lantern burns in a paper house,
Casting a shadow that looks like a prayer.
The distance is measured in heartbeats and miles,
A silence that stretches between two worlds.
The West is but a room where I sit and wait,
Bound by the echoes across eras to your soul.
When solitude grows heavy in the night,
The wisp appears to tell me you are there.
I feel the ache that travels through the deep,
A message in a bottle sent from your heart.
Time is a veil that I will rend in two,
For we have met in every age of man;
The song in my heart is the only path home.