Qiu Ye Yue · Almost Light, Not Yet Light

Cool thoughts fill my sleeves; I close the unfinished book; smoke enters the bed-curtain; the lamp-flower crumbles lightly. I have counted every paulownia leaf at the window, facing an empty quilt. Still weary, the brazier nearly ash, the water-clock still sounding. What is to be done—only that the night is deep and sleep is hard.

The silk curtain like water; the third watch passes; the cup half overturned; this long yearning, what will console it? If the dream comes back, do not ask; there are tears left on the pillow. Words cannot get to the heart of it—this feeling of many years—the scented pouch still hanging there. Turning the thought over, I wait right up to the streak of dawn when the fragrance fades.