Tonight my dreams will wear away the wind,
as the willow bends her knowing head. She weeps.
On painted silence a jasper boat will linger
by a sunless sea, mooring for the morrow.
She braves your voice, a treacherous tide
sunning the pale lids of jadeite islets.
Your eyes, the sublime blue of deadly ether.
Tonight my dreams will wear away the wind,
it will graze the autumn meadows,
slanted like my unappeased vows --
it will unravel the last chorus from an ancient book:
my fiction weaving, my inarticulate lies.
