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A hush of velvet, deep and vast,
The world holds breath, its shadows cast.
A single thread of gold appears,
To dry the canvas of our tears.
The hills ignite, a whispered fire,
Fulfilling dawn’s soft, deep desire.
The sky, a bruise of purple, grey,
Surrenders to the coming day.
And there it hangs, a perfect sphere,
To wash away the doubt and fear.
A silent promise, warm and bright,
The world is born again in light.
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The sky is a seamless expanse of pearl and ash, weeping a gentle, persistent rain that transforms the world into a watercolor painting. It is Qingming, the Clear and Bright Festival, a fleeting moment
The north wind hones its silver blade, Against the eaves where frost is laid. The twelfth moon wakes in a rush of white, Shortening the day, and lengthening the light Of lanterns being dusted, one by one, To catch the fading amber of the sun. Along t...
The world is caught in a silver breath, Between the autumn’s sleep and spring’s slow wake. The morning air, a sharp and sudden glass, Reflects the resolutions that we make. Old shadows stretch across the crust of snow, While iron branches sketch the ...
