Song of the Water Dragon

Dew chills the cold mist; the demon cultivator is old, riding a bone crane that cries in the desolate night. The black waters turn bitterly cold in autumn; the strange gate's lantern glows bright, and a sinister voice sounds for the first time. I think of Xiaoxiang, of flowers blooming on a distant shore, by the bridge of Granny Meng. I gaze toward the farthest reaches of the underworld, lingering, about to descend, when the wind rises with the Wuchang spirits.

Believe that the underworld stretches a thousand miles. Who has a wife who burns a letter and sends it to him? The nine levels of hell, ranks marching crosswise and askew, the tongue torn out, the cauldrons of boiling oil. Ruling all under heaven, beneath Fengdu City, shadows tremble over the cold waters. I think of burial clothes yet to be beaten clean, paper figures lifting their mallets, their faces bloodless.