Wang Yuan Xing · Flying on Half a Wing

A blizzard on the Tianshan; a thin cold covers everything — with half a wing, east and west are hard to make out. The road runs on and on; we tread on shadows and lose the trail, watching from the side as horses scream and riders are thrown. Soft words worn against each other; the wind tightens, a hidden fragrance breeds warmth; we look at each other and thunder shakes the emptiness. I will keep him company and take my leave of all this splendor.

No way out — the game lost, I yield the blue-green hills; wholly down and out, the brocade furs are loosened. Mist enough, a broken stele; cold light runs riot; the Nine Springs surge and rise in madness. A life of trudging, layer upon layer; the white blank of the wilderness — luckily a fool stays beside me. The vow is left for a thousand ages, the last echo out of the Xiao and Han passes.