#wuxingtu
Wuxing Category: Earth (土)
3-xx
The granite peak stands ancient, a silent, rugged throne,
Carving its sharp defiance against the grey horizon.
High walls rise indifferent to the turning of seasons,
Withholding every secret, every majesty, every fear.
But the clouds have gathered heavy with a persistent weight,
Unlocking silver floods at the mountain’s jagged pass.
The rain arrives, not a storm, but a slow and steady hand,
Seeping into fissures of the old, unyielding granite.
They meet where the hidden heart is guarded,
In the depths of the mountain, where the weary soul has rested.
This rain is but a tear that refuses yet to fall,
A quiet, human presence within the fortress structure.
It is not a salt of sorrow, nor a nectar of bliss,
Neither hearts that are broken, nor the binding of a vow.
It is the simple pulse of life against the rigid edge,
A promise made in silence on the spirit’s highest summit.
The resilience of the stone; the humanity of the tear.
Silver veins are pooling, seeking out the downward path,
Carrying the silent silt where the valleys do not witness.
They gather on the precipice, a force without a title,
Before they learn the gravity that no peak can reclaim.
The waterfall is born where the river takes its leap,
Crushing the rigid edges in a white and thunderous descent.
The canyon floors are carved where the water never tires,
Mastering the elements that the dormant earth provides.
They are the pillars of the mind,
The strength to be unyielding and the mercy to be gentle.
The tear remains suspended, a lens of crystal light,
Polishing the jagged soul through the watches of the dark.
We are the mountain standing, and the river running through,
The old grit of the journey and the washing of the new.
The creator remains at my side while the rock begins to glow,
Finding the truest beauty in the things we release.
The spirit is found where humanity meets the stone.
刘嘉文
© 2026 Liujiawen2024. All Rights Reserved
Apr 30
Apr 30, 2026 at 10:10 PM UTC
Wuxing Category: Earth (土)
3-xx
A cedar hull of six-sided frames,
That holds the lattice of six-sided cells.
The brood is held in shadowed, waxen rows,
Where capped jelly abounds in heavy gold.
The sisters do not swarm but stay to guard,
To nurture and collect within the walls.
Nature’s bounty buzzes with intent,
Each day, to follow the sun, to collect, to thrive.
I find myself in awe at this vault,
Where the geometry of the lines has become a hearth.
Where the world has purpose, in this colony of might,
But the aimless flight of my own lets me frantically drift.
This foundation is where a legacy grows,
And I see my own life in its matrix.
I do not seek the height of the summer wind,
Only the strength of the base and deep-set sill,
Ensuring the anchor of my heart is broad enough for the weight.
Low fieldstones trace the garden’s quiet edge,
Where water drips upon the sun-warmed clay.
The nectar of the tulip and the sage,
Is carried to the gate on golden thighs.
A heavy stone sits firm upon the lid,
To keep the winter’s breath from lifting high.
The fountain hums a low and steady song,
While workers rest beneath the copper eave.
This hive of wonder is a valley that mirrors my spirit,
Watching these tiny things move within this mimic of wood.
I take solace in their tempo and quell my pace and demands,
To find the quiet center in the expansion of this life with another.
I am not still, nor swarm, but calm, at peace with my existence,
To stand witness to the perimeter and the silence of the abyss.
If I am the Earth, you are my moon that supports this design.
If you are the nectar, then I am the labor of love.
It is in this truth that the stone is heavy, and the reason I remain.
刘嘉文
© 2026 Liujiawen2024. All Rights Reserved
Apr 26
Apr 26, 2026 at 7:27 PM UTC
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
An old traveler stands at the gate with a pack of stars,
A storyteller with a thousand myths to soften the stone.
He speaks of ancient kingdoms and the wisdom of his years,
Turning the heavy silence into a tapestry of clarity.
He does not flinch at the shadow or her sudden vexation,
Standing calm within the storm of her quiet resentment.
Not a parent to command, nor a stranger to the conflict,
But a partner who knows the path and lights the way.
He practices the ancient, silent art of Kintsugi,
A master of the healing craft learned across the wide seas.
He sees the cracks that others caused or chose to ignore,
Tracing the jagged lines with a touch of profound mercy.
He does not look past the scars but finds worth in the break,
Adding beauty and compassion for the sake of a weary soul.
He fills the hollow spaces with a wealth that cannot be sold,
Fusing her spirit with a love of refined gold,
Wiping the woe from her eyes to let her brilliance emerge.
The brush finds a new rhythm in the stillness of the night,
As he reveals the person standing beyond the present moment.
Profound talent and heart emerge from the forge of the past,
A character of rare beauty that was always meant to endure.
He sees the potential blooming like a lotus in the light,
Knowing the labor of the soul has only just started.
He offers gentle guidance with a dash of patient kindness,
Providing the quiet leeway for her spirit to find a home.
The seasoned spirit keeps his watch as a steady anchor,
A companion who marks the years by every wound and notch.
He uses the gold of his patience to mend what the world damaged,
Making the broken spirit even stronger than she was at the start.
He is the bedrock for the young dragon learning how to rise,
The steady earth beneath the mist as she claims the zenith.
He sees past the mask of the moment to the queen she is to be,
A woman of immense power, finally set and standing free,
Held in the light of an old soul who loves all he has seen.
刘嘉文
© 2026 Liujiawen2024. All Rights Reserved
Apr 9
Apr 9, 2026 at 9:37 AM UTC
Wǔxíng Category: Earth (土)
3-xx
A spirit sits caged, a dragon’s heart held in quiet rest,
Within a fragile shell, a work of art from her own hand.
Dormant she lies, yet power radiates from the white stone,
A woman of alabaster, separate from the world’s noise.
Unknowing of the force within, her form is obscured by history,
Pure and benevolent, a gentle soul beneath the surface.
Yet hidden depths remain, a story untold and guarded,
A wounded heart, protective and untrusting of the start.
Within the white dragon, she weeps a silent and hidden tear,
A woman broken and shattered year after year behind her walls.
She is non-confrontational, avoiding the fire of the world's sting,
Choosing to hide her marrow beneath a veil of silent stone.
The dragon spirit is the refuge she forged to guard her peace,
A sanctuary built to endure the cost of being used by others.
She is the masterpiece and the prisoner of her own design,
Awaiting a witness who can see the truth behind the mask,
Before the weight of the cage pulls her deeper into the earth.
An old scholar approaches, a curious and steady mind,
Seeking the vision within the brushstrokes she leaves behind.
He watches her movement, the rhythmic pace of her hand,
And sees the dragon stirring where others see only the stone.
Purposeful and unique, a spark ignites within the darkness,
As he recognizes the spirit emerging through the flow of ink.
He does not look at the shell, but at the force that dwells within,
Finding a kindred truth in the calligraphy of her wounded soul.
Through the white dragon, the scholar finds a sweet surprise,
But gives her a wide and gentle space to breathe and grow.
He does not desire to lead her, but to walk as a patient partner,
Wiping away the tears of woe and the fog of old frustrations.
With a steady hand, he clears the glass of her confusion,
Allowing her to see the world from a vantage point of peace.
He recognizes the kindred spirit behind the alabaster wall,
Providing the quiet stability she needs to stay afloat,
Becoming the mirror that reflects the power she has long forgot.
The inner dragon punishes him for the sins of a thousand pasts,
Lashing through the silence with the fire of her tangled heart.
He accepts the pain as a noble deed, a guiding seed of light,
Persisting through the fever while she tries to drive him away.
The more he loves, the more the spirit lashes in her confusion,
Unable to reconcile the kindness with the scars she carries.
He comforts the woman with a touch that she embraces too much,
Remaining steady as the bedrock while the transition takes hold.
Through the white dragon, he finds a love that transcends her masks,
A devotion that recognizes the soul beneath each changing form.
Though she remains unsure at times, retreating behind her walls,
He feels the mutual pulse of a bond that needs no outward name.
He has found his center by seeing through the alabaster shell,
Knowing the woman and the spirit as two halves of a singular truth.
Whatever disguise she takes, whatever fox or shadow she becomes,
His gaze will remain fixed on the light he found within the stone,
For he has seen her essence, and he will never look away.
刘嘉文
© 2026 Liujiawen2024. All Rights Reserved
Apr 9
Apr 9, 2026 at 9:32 AM UTC
Wǔxíng Category: Earth (土)
3-xx
The mountains of Jiǔzhàigōu hold the morning in a basin of stone,
Where Jìng Hǎi stretches its skin of glass to catch the sky.
On the northern slope , the white jade rests in the hollow of the hand,
Báidǐ Qīng - veins of green in the silt.
On the southern ridge, the forest-stone stands heavy and translucent,
Cǎo lǐ xuě - points of white in the deep.
Two minerals born of the same heat, now cooled by the same wind,
Bearing the weight of the world in a circle that has no end.
I look upon the bedrock and see the map of our breath,
Where your Báilóng spirit finds a home within my quiet soil.
You are the vibrant life that refuses to fade in the pale winter,
The green that gives a pulse to the frozen heights of the mind.
And I am the container that caught your falling light and held it,
A shield for the snowflakes that do not melt against my skin.
We are the Yīn and the Yáng of the jade, a symmetry of belonging,
Where my heart is the anchor and yours is the song that fills it.
The chimes of our shared endurance ring in a key only we can hear.
A thin steam rises from the cup of Báiháo Yínzhēn (White Tea),
The silver needles dancing in the slow pull of the water’s heat.
No sound breaks the perimeter of the scholar’s small flame,
Save for the rhythmic settling of the earth beneath the lake.
The patterns in the jade do not shift with the passing of the hours;
The green remains rooted, and the white remains pure.
The mirror of the water and the mirror of the gem are one,
Reflecting a mountain that does not tremble when the storm speaks.
We do not simply touch; we resonate like the harmonized chime of bells,
A frequency born of the Stone that has survived the crushing years.
In the spaces between my words, I feel the heartbeat of your silence,
A union that is not a tether, but a natural way of being.
Everything happens at its own pace, as the Zìrán has taught us,
Like the moss growing deep or the snow finding the forest floor.
I don't just hear your voice; I feel the weight of your heart in mine,
A secret language of ink-green and snowflake-white,
A peace that is as permanent as the valley and as clear as the tea.
刘嘉文
© 2026 Liujiawen2024. All Rights Reserved
Apr 6
Apr 6, 2026 at 9:49 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
Wǔxíng Category: Earth (土)
3-xx
The afternoon light angles across the digital screen,
dust motes suspended in the quiet of a closing month.
Two distinct orbits maintain a calculated distance,
drawing toward a center by the choice of a steady hand.
No printed blueprints exist for this specific resonance,
no mechanical manual for the merging of a single breath.
The geometry of the room remains fixed in its place,
marking the simple mathematics of presence and peace.
The map of our origin reveals a jagged and distant coast,
where a quiet acknowledgement began in the cooling wind.
The separate histories of two lives are smoothed by time,
like stones turned over in the wash of a persistent tide.
I see the color of the sunrise meeting a structured grey,
a slow exchange of strength occurring without a sound.
Kindness shows up in the way a door is held open,
an ordinary movement that builds a sanctuary of light.
Precision finds its purpose within a gentle grace,
as the persona falls away to reveal the man beneath.
Space is held open for the one who dreams in the night,
and for the one who trembles when the fire burns high.
The landscape is cultivated by the air of understanding,
where the lustful madness meets the weight of tender care.
This mirror does not distort the lines of the face,
reflecting a quiet truth that cast no shadow on the floor.
A definitive seal is pressed into the wax of the day,
placing a deep reciprocity beneath a heavy anchor.
Outside the glass, the chaotic games of the world spin on,
but the climate of the domed greenhouse remains still.
We are the designers of a peace that is built on bedrock,
relying on the certainty of the ground beneath our feet.
The stars begin their watch over the heavens above,
while a final rest is found exactly where it was meant to be.
刘嘉文
© 2026 Liujiawen2024. All Rights Reserved
Mar 31
Mar 31, 2026 at 10:51 AM UTC
Wǔxíng Category: Water (水)
5-xx
The sun strikes the floor at a sharp, cold angle,
Tracing blueprints sketched in the heat of the night.
White light spills across the architecture of desire,
Where the scaffolding stands waiting for a hand.
The map is laid out—uncharted waters and thunder,
Bright, improbable threads waiting to be embroidered.
There is a stillness here, a precision of the soul,
A landscape painted for eyes that have seen only grey.
I wake where the shimmering edge of sleep meets the floor,
Colliding with the solid, heavy presence of the morning.
I see the ash of the world settling over our boldest maps,
The necessary tyrant of time demanding its cold tally.
Do I aim too high, a kite tethered to a distant, burning star?
Or is this shaping of the air a horizon built for you?
I would give you the world’s breadth before you settle,
A landscape of adventure to wash away the ghosts,
Refusing to let the beautiful things be quietly killed.
The black and the white carps circle in the deep,
Following the lunar pull of a heart that knows its own.
The current is a two-fold gift, never ending, never still,
An abundance that flows around the thorns of the day.
The Asiatic sails are set, wayfinding the Pacific blue,
Coasts of Thailand and the ancient Mediterranean light.
We are the fusion of two worlds, layered and savory,
A sanctuary built where the salt spray meets the earth.
I wake beside you, held within the circle of our arms,
The heat of your being slowly warming the ancient stone.
I am the mountain, but the water is what gives me shape,
Polishing the surface and rounding the jagged edges.
I see the light in your eyes at every new discovery,
Knowing I built this horizon because of the love we hold.
We are the convergence, the black and the white,
Two-fold in our longing, navigating the leap together,
Crossing the threshold where the dream becomes the shore.
刘嘉文
© 2026 Liujiawen2024. All Rights Reserved.
Feb 27
Feb 27, 2026 at 11:56 AM UTC
Wǔxíng Category: Fire (火)
2-xx
The stainless tank sits heavy on the leaden bench,
Where spiral coils hold the latent, winding path.
In total dark, the fingers guide the celluloid,
A tactile dance within the light-tight steel.
The rhythmic pour of chemistry begins its work,
The metal lid contains the agitation’s pulse.
Cold water rinses clean the silver’s final ghost,
Before the drying rack reveals a frozen world.
The simplicity of where silence speaks in silver,
As one strips away the color to hear the whispers of the shadows,
Where black and white erase time from the equation of a life.
It is a soul where emotion is rendered in a raw texture of contrast,
A world of gray dancing on the fringes between truth and dream.
This art is the quietest form of noise, save for the shutter’s snap,
An alchemy of light where the mundane is converted to the eternal.
It is like reading the book and living it, rather than merely watching,
Finding a sanctuary in the slow birth of a memory in the dark.
Across the light table, the Ektachrome awakens,
A slide of vivid blue that burns the metal frame.
The pigment meets the grain in a luminous wash,
Like acrylic glazes layered on a sanded board.
Where once was only contrast, now the spectrum flows,
A saturated heat that melts the winter’s edge.
The brush of an artisan leaves a ridge of light,
Mapping the transition where the shadows turn to gold.
The world is reimagined through a lens of additive light,
Where the brilliance of the spectrum provides a new depth.
It is the bold stroke of color that shatters the monochrome chill,
Bringing a vivid richness to the structural truths of the frame.
The eye learns to seek the warmth hidden within the exposure,
Finding that the most striking images are those that hold the heat.
Beyond the grain and the chemical baths of the past,
A new clarity emerges, developed in the light of the present,
A masterpiece born when the shadow finally meets the sun.
刘嘉文
© 2026 Liujiawen2024. All Rights Reserved.
Feb 24
Feb 24, 2026 at 7:00 PM UTC
Wǔxíng Category: Fire (火)
2-xx
The midnight sky is brushed with carbon ink,
Where distant stars burn white against the cold.
The garden path is slick with morning dew,
While jasmine vines exhale a velvet breath.
Beneath the damp and heavy winter air,
The roses bow their heads in silent prayer.
The earth absorbs the water of the clouds,
And waits for the sun to break the morning mist.
I do not understand the why of it,
Searching the stars for the pulse of your soul.
I walk in the garden where the air is heavy,
Finding your scent in the exhale of the rose,
A presence caught in the jasmine’s soft bloom.
You are the singular truth that I seek,
The only light in the wide, dark expanse,
For all that I sense and I love is you.
The stillness holds what words cannot say.
The chisel leaves its ghost upon the stone,
A map of tool marks on the polished white.
The clay still holds the hollows of the hand,
Recorded in the firing of the kiln.
Across the canvas, color meets the grain,
A microscopic ridge of light and shade,
Where water soaked the paper, then withdrew.
The pigment stays, though the hand has moved on.
You are the texture in all that I touch,
Etched deep into the quiet of the soul.
Not a claim of ownership or of law,
But the heavy gravity of belonging.
A house built of only two in the dark,
A slow-burning heat that sears into the flesh,
Beyond the nebulae and shifting stars.
The salt of your soul is all that remains,
A union written in the very marrow.
刘嘉文
© 2026 Liujiawen2024. All Rights Reserved.
Feb 16
Feb 16, 2026 at 12:05 PM UTC
Wǔxíng Category: Earth (土)
3-xx
The February frost grips the garden gate,
Where paper hearts are pinned to frozen glass.
Red silk ribbons flutter in the biting wind,
Before the summer moon begins to wax.
In the seventh month, the magpies start to fly,
Forming a bridge across the Silver River,
So the Weaver and the Cowherd finally meet.
The earth sits still beneath the shifting stars.
A day of love, of Valentine, is here,
But it's not the same without you.
You are in my thoughts always, in my heart forever,
My mate in every life, past, present, and future.
You are the love I knew without knowing,
Because this has happened before and will again.
Two souls bound in ways I cannot explain,
I only know it deep within my being,
The key that fits the lock within my soul.
The chocolate melts within the gilded box,
And incense smoke curls in the temple courtyard.
The Weaver's needle threads a silent prayer,
While winter roses drop their heavy heads.
The strata of the cliffside do not move,
Recording every season in the rock,
As lunar shadows creep across the stone.
The Western sun sets as the Eastern moon rises.
I do not wish to acknowledge one day a year,
Not even two, about the love I have for you.
But to celebrate every day with you,
Expressing these astounding feelings that stay,
For you fill my thoughts and haunt my dreams.
For you are the heart, and I am the stone,
And the song between us shall not be silenced,
A pulse that beats as long as time endures,
Held fast within the earth that knows our names.
刘嘉文
© 2026 Liujiawen2024. All Rights Reserved
Feb 13
Feb 13, 2026 at 2:40 PM UTC
Wǔxíng Category: Earth (土)
3-xx
The white disk rests heavy against the pulse,
A circle of sky-breath trapped in ancient silt.
Green veins drift like ink dropped in a clear pool,
Tracing the paths of a thousand hidden rivers.
It bears the chill of the earth’s deep marrow,
Yet warms where it touches the heat of the skin.
No crack mars the surface of this polished light,
Only the weight of a mountain made small and round.
You are the jade that does not break under the tide,
Steady when the world demands a bending we do not give.
When the words of kin strike like hammers on glass,
I am the bedrock that absorbs the trembling blow.
There is music in the way the spirit holds firm,
A resonance that only the high and the pure can keep.
The anchor is cast in the depth of our shared silence,
Echoing the song of the stone in every quiet breath,
Rising through the storm as a pillar of white and green.
The chimes hang suspended in the doorway of the heart,
Thin slivers of light waiting for the stir of the air.
When struck, they do not weep or shatter into dust,
But release a long hum that vibrates in the bone.
It is the sound of the world being put back in place,
The clarity of a bell after the thunder has passed.
The moss-in-snow pattern remains calm and unmoved,
A map of a forest that grows within the gem’s heart.
This bond is a shield that rings against the dark,
A beauty that does not fade when the sun goes down.
Though the rising water seeks to pull you from the shore,
My hand is the root that finds the stone beneath.
Let the ink-green inclusions be our secret language,
Signs of a life that was tempered in the crushing heat.
We are the polish that comes from a long endurance;
Even on these cold winter days, the song of the stone
Sustains a resonance that spans the distance between us.
刘嘉文
© 2026 Liujiawen2024. All Rights Reserved
Feb 10
Feb 10, 2026 at 12:05 PM UTC
Wǔxíng Category: Earth (土)
3-xx
The red of the roses is a dying hue,
petals wilting in the stagnant kitchen air.
The rhythm of the house is out of sync,
lost between the labor and the cradle's rock.
A timepiece measures out the empty space,
ticking through the silence of the evening meal.
Unspoken words are etched in every wall,
while sleep remains a luxury long forgotten.
Is it the weight of the silence that I feel,
as this shattered vessel carves its line between our hearts?
The echo of the same old war returns to us,
shaking the foundations of the life we built.
We are branches reaching for a separate sun,
ignoring the roots that choke beneath the soil.
The everyday grind has dulled the edge of joy,
leaving only embers where the fire once burned,
as the world presses down upon your weary shoulders.
The winter mist obscures the garden path,
signposts pointing toward the separate woods.
The mundane ritual wears the spirit thin,
a grey erosion of the will to try.
One path leads back to the flicker of the lamp,
the other vanishes into the biting cold.
A lawyer’s option waits within the desk,
a sharp alternative to the slow decay.
I look upon the shards of the evening tonight,
knowing the shattered vessel is no longer worth the doubt.
Is love a constant, or a bloom that fails,
requiring care that we can no longer provide?
The shadows of anxiety cloud the inner eye,
as the ultimate question hangs heavy in the air.
I stand at the fork of a road I did not choose,
wondering if the flame is worth the desperate breath,
or if the bond has finally broken beyond repair.
刘嘉文
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Feb 10
Feb 10, 2026 at 11:39 AM UTC