Vocalise haunted still by faces smeared with ash.
Depressed all winter long he thwarts his captive breath.
If only we could plunder rumors kept well-guarded.
But are you there and are we troubling you?
The stars suffused with aspects no one can discern.
A maiden warming up to a widow who shields her face.
Who’s to say our ch’i might not suddenly bloom.
Or rival a sage’s flowering arms await the call.
The ceiling clay shouldered-in by solemn monks.
An oracle to be chosen where the bottle stood uncorked.
Lips without song useless as the hours pass.
Who asks for bread instead of stones flying overhead?
A sickness in the blood crowned with fire.
Renounce the troth or spare us six-winged seraphim.
Too much perhaps desired glazed with pearly glow.
As he forsook the root to try the bones again.
In mansions we cannot enter wider than this world.