Theft

When I was young,

I stole a sip of jasmine tea beneath the willows—

Like spring suspended in my mouth.

I stole a thin slice of evening glow，

to pin on summer wind’s bridal veil.

And later,

I rudely broke the quiet moon,

yet still hoped each night for its tune

I folded fantasies into little boats.

Squandering all for a single fulfillment—

I stole away the self I used to know.

But now,

amid the bustling noise,

in the murky melody of dusk,

I fold old tickets, marked with time,

and chase a mist, a fading rhyme.

Beneath white hair, a childlike grace—

I steal back her, with a stranger’s face.