Ink stains the rice paper. The Hanlin Academy's treasury of words, funeral drapes of brocade and silk, a secluded dream behind drawn curtains. I set down a page of longing, fragrant with ink, lingering among brush and ink. Han rhapsodies and Yuan songs drift in a haze; one parting song is tinged with Tang poetry and Ning verse. The years slip away, composing a brilliant song of separation. I lay down to rest with the pain of wandering, sleeping in that lifetime, my soul dimmed with sorrow, my grief rising in song. I gaze toward the lovely falling blossoms, rain becoming butterflies, and wind and smoke consuming the remnants of a dream. Alone, I understand a volume of Buddhist scripture.
