The master Zheng Lee said
I was sitting on the shore of the river
Hunan, watching the decked wrecks
Of broken wood float by. Where is the blue
Sky, stretching tower over the ancient altars, the sacred pyramids?
The goddess heard me and spoke with her red burning lips:
The convoy of ships has failed – spices, musk; fine nard and incense
Will not reach their destination – A hand will not caress
The lovely hips; her hair will not flow silver
Like a mist and fall to the ground when she unbraids the clips –
Like a waterfall he will cry; she will stand in darkness by the side
And near the tumult of a roar will be (the moans and sobs)
– For Mheng Kai has died – that luminous captain
Whose lips are very like granite, and whose eyes
Blaze like the light in snowy skies:
He hears storms, he thunders breath, he sees
All manner of panthers and jackals devouring his corpse:
The yellow limbs (and fingers broken off), the chest
Ripped and green with dew and blood, by the trees
Hung thick with foliage, and heavy with the mossy tips
Of fungus and the red mist – it blazes
Like the lovers’ ruddy eyes and the goddess’ burning lips
Of sunset where the sailor lies.
But I think Lheng Zhee concluded in the dying light
That his shadow still flickers a ghostly blue
In the purple fire of the night.