But you have never wondered if those poems were perhaps never waiting for you at all.
They were waiting for...
Someone read “My shadow makes three with me” beneath a lamplight. When he lowered his head, his shadow was already standing behind him.
Someone silently recited “Only the river boat’s lone light shines” at a ferry crossing. Beneath the water, a hand was reaching out from his reflection.
When someone recited “We all wear dogwood, but one is missing,” he heard someone behind him supply the next line.
Every ancient poem hides a “door.”
Get it right, and you become a relic. Get it wrong, and you become a sacrifice.
