Wǔxíng Category: Fire (火 - Huǒ)
2-xx
The midsummer sun strikes the surface of the green pond,
Lotus blossoms split the heat with heavy petals of pink,
Beneath the wide shelter of floating emerald pads,
The gold carp darts through shifting shadows of the deep.
An old plum branch holds the weight of ripening fruit,
The wind moves through leaves without leaving a trace,
Upon a table of dark, rich aged fir, a gǔqín (古琴) rests,
Waiting for the unseen hand to make its fibers speak.
The old man, Yuèlǎo (月老), pulls the crimson cord tight in the shadows,
Knotting our fates together long before the dawn of light,
An inexplicable loop where the soul always finds its home.
You are the steady stroke of the brush upon the silk,
I am the ink that bleeds into your exact lines,
Or perhaps I hold the wood and you pour the fluid dark.
Two separate arts clashing in the space between beats,
Resonating in a harmony that defies the passing world,
A cosmic convergence where two different mediums meet.
A single drop of black ink falls into clear water,
It twists and blooms like smoke before it disappears,
The white dragon handles the sky with silent authority,
Slender, delicate fingers press and pluck the silk strings,
Drawing heavy, resonant tones from the heart of the seasoned wood,
The red thread does not break under the pull of miles,
It stretches thin over mountains and the crests of oceans,
Holding its color against the bleaching of the sun.
I watch the ripples stir the reflection of the summer sky,
Listening to the dark richness of the fir vibrating in the noon heat,
There are no words ordinary enough to carry this weight.
We have danced this exact path in a century forgotten,
Bound to each other by a cord that spans across eras.
You are the comfort in the clash, the guide who follows,
My heart, my being, given completely to the celestial scales of white,
Tied by the ancient hands of fate to the beat between beats,
Two distinct notes, ringing as one, in perfect midsummer harmony.
刘嘉文
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