By X. Z. Shao
She washed yarns in a brook,
a Burne-Jones’ nymph hanging
over the Mirror of
Flying birds forgot fluttering their wings,
while carps thronged to kiss her hands.
Her sable tress cascaded over
her humble flax-woven dress
which barely contented
her wavy shape, ripening breasts.
Her pale moonlight face
radiated a smile that commanded
bees to turn away from flowers.
Her songs of ancient tales,
of joy or of sorrow, accorded with
the crystal water flow.
Oh, do not take her away
to the stagnant, muddy court.
Do not powder
and teach her skills to charm.
She was a temple of innocence.
For her, the sunset was golden,
and the nearby hills were drunk.