Thick ink drops in a ritual
that echoes four thousand years
of an unyielding faith.
Far off the daybreak,
Scattered sounds of firecrackers
Are muted by the devout sky;
Steaming warmth of boiled rice
Is chilled by nostalgic loneliness;
Long-lost blessings are hidden
In the wordless exchange of eyes.
Is darkness too bleak to endure,
Or message of spring too obscure
To be celebrated by empty souls?
Along the path of years
Lit by the crimson lanterns,
Tied with the faded ribbons,
Fragrant petals of wintersweet
Land in my cup of tea, rippling
The rhymes of childlike dreams.
Thick ink flows in a ritual
that preludes the longing charm
of the lively spring.