A Ballad of the Sixteenth Moon
I touch with the tip of my pen,
Playing the song of lunar strings
then.
Snuffing out the candle of jealousy,
Halting the abrupt descent of a flame.
Awaiting the dew to hang a single pearl,
I strum again, leave a mark
Fusing with my blood,
Flowing into the brush softly.
Many nights as a violinist,
Adjusting to the wind's humorous,
Dispelling the sorrow of the rain's loss,
Into the river flows the moon's gloss.
Not curled like the autumn leaves,
Nor swirling like the river deceives.
This stream is lively and free,
Purifying the night's impurity.
With the clarity flowing into dawn's light,
Flowing to the players, piper...