Whispers Beneath the Blossoms
after Chen Qufeis "隱語花事"
Spring stirs like wine—who still dreams aloud in the gauze of mist?
The wind, a torn sleeve, brushes the lake where silence creases.
Let memory be exiled—its shadow walks slow along the river’s lip.
Love, frail as moth-wing, was shredded in letters never sealed.
Regret, unvoiced, smolders beneath the amber hush of noon.
Your temples, a frost I smooth with the breath of waiting—
a pale hue of willow, trembling long before morning’s light.
Nightlight leaks through the seams of glass—unopened questions sleep in dust.
The rain chants soft upon the eaves—who recites spells to forgotten gods?
We hide names—not from each other, but from the self we feared to speak.
What aches most? That love flows like water—too tender to contain.
Far paths return: each road, a mirror to the soul’s quiet forest.
What flowers drink is more than rain—silent wishes soaked in dusk.
And falling petals—mute, but louder than any farewell ever said.
