A Cello’s Song (A Ci-style poem to the musical pattern of Shuǐlóngyín)
I rise from silence, drawn by the bow,
hair on gut, breath against stillness.
At first I am nothing —
a shiver through empty air,
a thread unwinding from dusk.
Shadows lean close to listen.
Walls tremble; windows remember rain.
The candle wavers, then steadies.
A single voice holds the room —
fragile, burning, unwilling to end.
Do not ask whose hand moves me.
I am only the wind made visible,
a wound turned to gold.
When the bow falls quiet,
I scatter back into silence.
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