Qiu Ye Yue · Before First Light

A chill longing fills my sleeves. I close the worn book; mist drifts into the curtains; the charred blossom on the lampwick softly crumbles. I have counted every last leaf of the parasol tree by the window, and face an empty quilt alone. Still weary, the censer burning down to ash, the water clock dripping on. What can I do? The night is deep, and sleep will not come.

The silk bed-curtains, like water; the third watch slips by; the cup lies half overturned. What can soothe this long-held yearning? If the dream comes back, ask nothing; tears linger beside the pillow. Years of feeling I cannot put into words; the scented sachet still hangs. Turning it over in my mind, I wait until the first light of dawn, when the fragrance fades.