In the silver ring of light
a skirt is waving in the wind
The ring is rolling along
like a hatched egg
The thin shell is broken
out flies a spring swallow
This is your origin
You are from a spring swallow
flying over blue bricks and black tiles
nesting under a low eave
accompanying orange candlelight
and intermittent sounds of book reading
The wind outside, the window is blowing louder and louder
The candlelight is getting weaker and weaker
Your glances are glooming
An orange has been just peeled
Bamboo chair, fish basket, and water vat in the courtyard
A pair of black cloth shoes on the step
A pot of orchids on the tea table
are still thinking of vanished steps
In the sound of a shoved wood door
sunshine enters, swallowing candle shadows
The blue silk shirt on the chair
seems to stand up in the breeze
Eventually all homes are guest houses
we are hasty travelers
in the face of windy years
burning out our own candlelight
Mid-autumn moonlit night
shadows on different streets
walk out the mutual time
like porcelain cups
pouring out the old tea of yesterday
The ring of light begins to close and fade out
shrinking to a bubble
vanishing in the dreams of yesterday
The skirt dissolves into blue smoke
A handkerchief on the laundry rope
droops down gently
and flutters in the wind
like a flying swallow