#hiddentruths
Wuxing Category: Earth (土)
3-xx
The mountain peaks hold fast their crowns of white,
While spring’s first breath begins to part the ice.
The lake reflects a sky of thinning glass,
And plum tree blossoms drift across the stone.
A wooden easel stands within the yard,
Where bold acrylics meet the morning light.
A fountain hums beneath a heavy sphere,
That turns in silence on a silver film.
The children's laughter echoes near the gate,
While weightless motion marks the passing hours.
I watch you turn, a moment caught in breath,
Before the shutter clicks and holds you fast.
The storm may gather on the jagged heights,
But here the garden keeps the winter’s chill at bay.
You are the heat that thaws my frozen core,
The steady hand that paints the world in gold,
A balance found within your quiet gaze.
The camera lens records the turning head,
A frame of movement stilled by silver light.
Petals swirl like snow in gentle air,
To rest upon the grass and palette’s edge.
The bees are drawn to blossoms pink and pale,
While water burbles through the granite throat.
A canvas waits for colors yet to come,
Beneath the shadow of the brooding peaks.
You are the center where my spirit rests,
In the quiet turning of the world, I find my peace.
The images I hold are etched in soul,
A landscape where the fire and ice are one.
Though storms may threaten on the distant crest,
The garden remains the temple of our days.
I build the walls and watch the perimeter,
So you may paint the dreams that feed my heart,
And keep the balance of our home alive.
刘嘉文
© 2026 Liujiawen2024. All Rights Reserved
Apr 24
Apr 24, 2026 at 10:45 AM UTC
Wǔxíng Category: Earth (土)
3-xx
Thirteen limestone spires anchor the shifting sky,
Ancient dragon ribs of Jade Mountain turned to stone.
The Blue Moon basin holds the weight of the heights,
Where minerals settle in a thick, turquoise silt.
The scholar’s stride is heavy, deliberate, and low,
Tracing the cold veins of the planet’s granite skin,
While the silent companion follows a scent older than kings,
Leaving steady prints in the dust of a dying glacier.
Within the marrow of the rock, the pale dragon sleeps,
Watching the ancient passes through moss-colored eyes.
The traveler finds his refuge in the density of the peaks,
A Longmen spirit carved from the silence of the high pass.
He is the unyielding jade that refuses to bend or bow,
The steady center where the five kingdoms find their balance.
Beneath the white drift, his heart beats with the soil,
A foundation of peace that stretches ten thousand miles,
Rooted in the Way where the labels of men fall away.
She, in the shape of a fox, is a shadow against the cliff,
Finding the sheltered ledge where the wind cannot reach.
For peace is not found in flight, but in the sinking down,
The strength to be the stone that the river must flow around.
The clear lakes are heavy with the bones of the range,
Reflecting a landscape that refuses to change its face.
The thaw of spring is but a surface stir of the crust,
But the foundation of this valley remains perfectly still.
The fox curls tight against the scholar’s steady side,
Seeking the warmth of the jade within the hallowed dark.
In the depth of sleep, a phantom shimmer stirs her form,
A soft, pearlescent flicker beneath the silver fur.
The single brush-tail grows into three, then seven,
Growing to nine before retreating back to the safety of one.
As the dragon’s hidden heart dreams of the zenith,
Resting its strength against the bedrock of the world.
A soft whimpering breaks the stillness of the night,
As the shadow-fox drifts through the jagged edges of a dream.
The scholar, deep in the mountain’s sleep, feels the change,
His own spirit sensing the tremor of her restless Qì.
Without waking, his hand finds the curve of her brow,
An instinctive grace answering the dragon beneath her fur.
A gentle scratch, a slow rub to anchor her spirit,
As the earth rises up to meet the flickering flame.
Here in the basin, the dragon and the fox become one,
Two pulses slowing to match the heartbeat of the ground.
He knows the weight of the scales beneath her silver mask,
Just as she feels the hum of the dragon’s Qì beneath his skin.
A resonant warmth, the internal flame of the unyielding jade,
Seeking the shivering light of the pearl to make it whole.
They keep the secret of the sky while walking the dirt,
A silent pact of kings disguised as a man and his pet,
Where the scholar is finally, and forever, at home.
刘嘉文
© 2026 Liujiawen2024. All Rights Reserved
Apr 10
Apr 10, 2026 at 9:30 AM UTC
Wǔxíng Category: Earth (土)
3-xx
White fur brushes against the high spring grass,
nine plumes swaying like silk fans in the wind.
A scholar sits where the mountain stream slows,
his hands steady, tending a small flame for tea.
The fox approaches with a step light as fallen petals,
her human skin a pale porcelain in the dawning light.
He does not startle at the rustle of the thicket,
nor does he look up from the ceramic cup he holds.
The air is still, holding the scent of pine and old ink.
The weight of a thousand winters begins to dissolve,
for in his presence, the many layers are finally still.
I have sought this mountain through a hundred lives,
wearing the faces of beggars, queens, and clever beasts.
He is the Dào, his storm now irrelevant; a whisper,
a soul so ancient it remembers the cooling of the stars.
I watch his fingers, calloused by the earth and the seasons,
knowing they hold the gentleness of a thousand lifetimes.
In his silence, I find the courage to finally become undone.
He reaches out, a slow movement like the turning tide,
His palm came to rest against her shifting cheek.
The nine tails fanning out behind her begin to glow,
turning from the white of snow to a blinding, celestial silver.
From his robe, he draws an orb of Pale Jade, polished and cold,
placing the luminous stone into her trembling hand.
The fox’s narrow eyes widen into the golden orbs of a dragon,
as the shimmer of divine scales begins to crest like a wave.
The man remains anchored, his breath rhythmic and deep.
The illusion of the wild creature falls at a single touch,
shattered by a voice that carries the resonance of the earth.
"I know you," he whispers, a truth older than the mountains,
offering the jade where my own spirit is carved in the grain.
He does not fear the thunder or the coil of the celestial form,
for he has found the song within the stone and called it home.
Every mask I wore was but a different name for the same heart,
and in his eyes, I am not a monster or a goddess, but the truth -
This is our recognition beyond the veil.
刘嘉文
© 2026 Liujiawen2024. All Rights Reserved
Apr 3
Apr 3, 2026 at 9:26 AM UTC
In front of the altar,
up close, you’ll see
a variety of people
different cultures, beliefs, behaviours
all bowing at the cross.
But I wonder, on days like this,
if they’ll all make it
to the place they hope for
after death.
Yes—heaven.
Because I,
standing before this altar,
am an observer,
a quiet journalist of my own,
driven by curiosity.
I study this crowd of hidden wolves,
an uneasy feeling in my chest
as their real selves slip through
every now and then
even behind their masks.
Just for a moment,
they show themselves.
And I see it,
the need to belong,
the fear of being left behind,
the performance of holiness,
the hunger to be seen,
to be chosen
by those who call themselves sheep.
And still,
I see you
most of you
as you sing,
kneeling
in front of the altar.
Pretending
not before God,
but before each other.
Mar 17
Mar 17, 2026 at 3:51 PM UTC
I grew up collecting shards
of words and gestures
that cut me more than they healed.
I carried them like treasure,
thinking sharp edges meant I was stronger.
I learned to hide the bleeding
under layers of quiet,
under smiles I didn’t feel.
But the night holds other lessons—
even broken glass reflects stars.
Even pain can shine
when it’s seen in the right light.
And I remember now:
the universe didn’t forget me,
even when I thought I was lost.
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 3:22 PM UTC
We only spoke through voices,
distance humming through the line,
but sometimes you don’t need to see someone
to recognise a familiar silence.
I could hear it in the pauses,
in the careful way the words were chosen,
like every sentence had already been checked
before it was allowed to breathe.
Children learn that skill early
in houses where storms live.
Which truths are safe to say.
Which ones must stay buried
somewhere behind the ribs.
I know that language.
I was once a child
who heard half the story
and carried twice the weight.
The quiet conversations behind doors,
the names whispered with tension,
the strange feeling of understanding
things no one ever explained.
And somehow the pieces children are given
are never the ones that make sense.
Sometimes the story changes
depending on who is telling it.
Sometimes the truth gets bent
so the people holding it
don’t have to look too closely at themselves.
Children don’t question that.
They just hold the pieces they’re given
and try to make a world out of them.
But the heart notices things
long before the mind understands them.
That quiet confusion.
That heavy feeling
that something doesn’t quite fit.
I remember carrying that too.
What I know now
that I didn’t know then
is something simple but powerful—
Children are not responsible
for the storms around them.
They are only the ones
learning how to stand
while the thunder rolls overhead.
And sometimes, years later,
when the world grows quieter,
the truth slowly finds its way
through the cracks of old stories.
When it does,
it changes everything.
But it also reveals something else—
The child who survived it
was always stronger
than they were ever told.
Mar 9
Mar 9, 2026 at 3:13 PM UTC
Anxiety, do you think you love me?
Oh mind, do you want to be my friend?
A lonely stone in the full quarry
No chance that it will begin to swim
Shadow girl, with your many faces
With every ash you take to sin
Big voiced tropes steady unfolded
A fear to never tell again
Aug 7, 2025
Aug 7, 2025 at 9:17 AM UTC
Blood stained washcloth wiping away at a soul stained in secrets
how do you wipe the canvas clean without having to burn it
You adorn the swan that holds coffins under its wings, truths you wouldn't have found above water
You adorn the swan that masquerades it's elegance,claws that found their way to your heart
You adorn the swan that protects it's beauty for that's all it had,a gaze that left you with shame
Tethered robes that screamed struggle Soiled jewels that told mistakes I didn't want repeated
Torn photos,moments of regret I kept hidden under the bed
Doesn't it look beautiful
Jul 19, 2025
Jul 19, 2025 at 10:57 PM UTC
A child spoke, and the world stood still—
"I've lived before, I remember still."
"I buried my treasure, hidden from sight,"
"Beneath that tree, where sunlight shines bright."
Who whispered these tales to an innocent mind?
Who let the past so deeply unwind?
Are memories just echoes lost in time,
Or does the soul truly transcend life’s line?
Feb 27, 2025
Feb 27, 2025 at 7:37 AM UTC