|
你話門開， |
You said the door was open |
火門自入
Echoes of Winter’s Bite
|
冬寒啄咗舊夢， |
Last winter bites the past, |
The Smallest Flame
Even the smallest flame can hold its ground
Against the weight of vast, unbroken night;
Where silence falls so deep it seems to drown
All breath of hope and every tender light.
Yet still that fragile ember dares to stay,
A pulse of gold within the dark’s embrace;
No storm of hush can wholly sweep away
The quiet courage burning in that place.
For silence is not master of the fire—
It only frames the glow more clear and bright;
And what seems frail may climb a little higher
When shadow yields a throne to patient light.
So learn from sparks that tremble yet remain:
The smallest flame makes deepest silence wane
Winter’s Last Bites on the Lomond
The Lomond hauds its cauldness tight,
Wi’ winter’s teeth still sharp in bite.
The wind comes skirlin’ ower the brae,
As if it cannae let the day.
Yet hints o’ thaw begin tae creep,
Like whispers wakin’ frae a sleep.
The loch glints pale in fadin’ frost—
Winter still bites, but soon is lost.
The snaw lies thin on moss and stane,
A ghost o’ winter’s auld refrain.
Yet through the chill a promise brews—
A softer licht begins tae ruse.
And sae the Lomond, cauld yet fair,
Lets winter fade intae the air.
花燈未問價
|
花燈未點，我已坐定， |
The lantern is not yet lit, |
蘭影
|
石隙幽蘭 |
Hidden orchid |
Exile Road
Life is an exile—so the old words claim,
A quiet truth that lingers in the bone.
We walk through cities never quite the same,
As if the earth remembers we’re not home.
The road ahead is lit by restless skies,
Yet every step feels older than our years.
Somewhere a vanished doorway softly lies,
Half-built of memory, half-shaped of tears.
But home is not the road that leads behind,
No simple path returning where we stood.
The past is smoke the wandering winds unwind,
A ghost of what we thought we understood.
So still I walk, composed beneath the dome—
An exile learning how to carry home
Morning Chorus
|
雀仔喺枝頭， |
Birds on a branch sing, |
The Reiver Lass o Liddesdale
The win blaws sair ower Liddesdale,
The lift hangs laigh an grey,
But there rides a lass wi steel-bricht een
At the skreigh o break o day.
Her mantle’s black as corbie wing,
Her mare’s a nicht-dark gale;
The wardens curse her ridin name
Frae Bewcastle tae Teviotdale.
Ride, ride, ye reiver lass,
Through haar an hunter’s mune;
Nae yett nor yaird can haud ye fast,
Nae fetter bide ye dune.
She was a laird’s ain dochter ance
By the peel abuin the burn,
Till Southron spears cam skelpin in
An the haill place gaed tae urn.
Her faither lay by the reekit wa’s,
Her mither cauld as stane;
That nicht she swore by steel an star
She’d ne’er ride meek again.
Ride, ride, ye reiver lass,
Through haar an hunter’s mune;
Nae yett nor yaird can haud ye fast,
Nae fetter bide ye dune.
She kens ilk pass o Carter Fell,
Ilk slack an heather brae;
Her whinger’s quick, her bridle licht
When the black kye lift an stray.
Yet aye she’ll bield the puir man’s cot,
An share the reivin fee—
For hunger learns a blade its wark,
But grief gars mercy be.
Ride, ride, ye reiver lass,
Through haar an hunter’s mune;
Nae yett nor yaird can haud ye fast,
Nae fetter bide ye dune.
Ae gloamin nicht the wardens rade
Wi fifty spear an mail;
They thocht tae snare the reiver witch
Somewhere by Deadwater Hail.
But swifter still her bonnie mare
Across the mosses flew—
An whaur the peat reek drifts at dawn
Nae mortal kens her noo.
Ride, ride, ye reiver lass,
Through haar an hunter’s mune;
Nae yett nor yaird can haud ye fast,
Nae fetter bide ye dune.
Wednesday Quiet
|
星期三靜， |
Wednesday grows still, |
月色之間
|
夜靜，窗邊有月， |
Night is quiet, the moon at the window. |
蝶影
|
蝶過花邊 |
Butterfly passes |
My 3DXChat life 