A Dream of Clouds and Rain

Beneath the Twelve Jade Peaks I strayed in dream, Where mist like woven silk unbound the stream; A traveler, with dust of roads upon his sleeve, Sought dusk’s dim inn no waking eyes perceive. There incense ash lay pale as fallen snow, And phantom lamps in hollow chambers glow; A sigh of wind through curtains, thin as thought, Unsealed the gate where mortal sense is naught. She came as clouds that lean to kiss the rain, Soft-shadowed form, both solace and soft pain; Her voice, like zithers drowned in distant seas, Unwound my heart in trembling cadences. The Twelve Jade Peaks in hush of twilight lay, Each curve concealed in veils of silver-gray; Her sleeve brushed mine—no more the worlds apart, For clouds and rain inscribed the hidden art. The silk-worm threads of longing, spun unseen, Bound breath to breath where waking had not been; Each touch a verse no bamboo slips could hold, Each glance a tale too luminous for told. A hairpin fell—its note, a lucid chime, Still echoing beyond the seams of time; In that small sound, the heavens seemed to break, And stirred the depths no mortal word may wake. Yet cold grew jade where once her warmth had lain, And mist withdrew to mock the dream as vain; The Golden Crow with burning talons bright Tore veils of night and scattered them to light. I woke with ash of incense on my sleeve, And silk of thought no daylight could relieve; Still clouds and rain in memory’s hollow keep— The Twelve Jade Peaks endure, but only sleep.