“The Fragrance of Love Has No Season”
Author: Anna Keiko
–
I
The Mist of West Lake
In the gray sky of Hangzhou, clouds slowly fall, like the prayers of a lost lover.
You and I sit side by side by the lake, like two shadows that have forgotten the source of light.
The wind blows, bringing the fragrance of the withered flowers in May. “You are still here,” you say, your voice as soft as the dew on the petals of the dying wisteria.
And I just nodded, because I know: existence is sometimes the most silent form of parting.
II
Dialogue under the osmanthus tree
Under the osmanthus tree, we talked like two fish in a broken jar, swimming in the silence of tears.
“Why does love always come after the season is gone?” you asked. I wanted to answer with ancient poems, but the tip of my tongue froze in the snow of memory.
We gaze at the moon that is broken apart, like a heart that cannot be mended by prayer.
III
The letter that was never sent
I wrote a letter on a leaf, and let the wind read it to the sky.
“I love you like bamboo loves rain – silent, upright, but broken from the inside.”
But the letter was never delivered. Because you have become the night, and I am only a small lamp in front of the temple window.
IV
The bridge that remembers your footsteps
Your footsteps echoed on the stones of Su Causeway.
I counted them: one for your smile, two for the laughter that will never return, and a hundred for all the words you never said.
The lotus flowers drooped, not because of the wind, but because they understood: the loss of beauty is the highest form of curse.
V
The silence that devours everything
Now, there is only the cry of the white cranes flying across the broken sky.
I called you, but your voice was only the echo on the tombstone at dusk.
The lake has reflected our faces, like two seasons that have never met.
“Love is a fragrant grave,” you wrote for the last time. And I engraved those words in my heart, before silence really swallowed our names.
Shanghai, 2025
Author: Anna Keiko
I
The Mist of West Lake
In the gray sky of Hangzhou, clouds slowly fall, like the prayers of a lost lover.
You and I sit side by side by the lake, like two shadows that have forgotten the source of light.
The wind blows, bringing the fragrance of the withered flowers in May. “You are still here,” you say, your voice as soft as the dew on the petals of the dying wisteria.
And I just nodded, because I know: existence is sometimes the most silent form of parting.
II
Dialogue under the osmanthus tree
Under the osmanthus tree, we talked like two fish in a broken jar, swimming in the silence of tears.
“Why does love always come after the season is gone?” you asked. I wanted to answer with ancient poems, but the tip of my tongue froze in the snow of memory.
We gaze at the moon that is broken apart, like a heart that cannot be mended by prayer.
III
The letter that was never sent
I wrote a letter on a leaf, and let the wind read it to the sky.
“I love you like bamboo loves rain – silent, upright, but broken from the inside.”
But the letter was never delivered. Because you have become the night, and I am only a small lamp in front of the temple window.
IV
The bridge that remembers your footsteps
Your footsteps echoed on the stones of Su Causeway.
I counted them: one for your smile, two for the laughter that will never return, and a hundred for all the words you never said.
The lotus flowers drooped, not because of the wind, but because they understood: the loss of beauty is the highest form of curse.
V
The silence that devours everything
Now, there is only the cry of the white cranes flying across the broken sky.
I called you, but your voice was only the echo on the tombstone at dusk.
The lake has reflected our faces, like two seasons that have never met.
“Love is a fragrant grave,” you wrote for the last time. And I engraved those words in my heart, before silence really swallowed our names.
Shanghai, 2025
