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霧鎖維港月未明， |
Beneath the mist, Victoria’s moon grows pale; |
還港
Author: Meiling Cheung
Engineer by discipline; musician, dancer, and poet by inclination. I find greater pleasure in elegant ideas than loud certainties, and in wit that arrives a heartbeat after the smile.
Patience is underrated. Intelligence is quietly seductive. Desire, when allowed to breathe, becomes far more interesting than urgency.
I have lived enough to value truth over performance, craftsmanship over spectacle, and conversation over conquest. Silk, leather, vinyl, Bach, Leonard Cohen, Gödel, a well-made martini, and the rare delight of meeting a mind that makes the room larger.
If we meet, come with curiosity. Harbours receive many ships, but only a few ever learn the tides.
What the Light Keeps
Beauty does not promise that it will stay;
It enters fully, then withdraws its ray;
The rose is most itself at the loosening—
What fades was never diminished by the day.
俾我心入面嗰個浪女
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我心底有個浪女，夜半醒， |
There lives within me, waking with the night, |
Monday
Monday slips beneath my door
in silk and morning light.
I leave the coffee waiting
and let the day undress me—
like satin poured over warm skin.
The Ballad of the Lady Who Went West
Long years ago, when tales were young
And green the world beneath the sun,
There lived a Lady fair and tall
Who heard the Sea beyond them all.
Her hair was gold as harvest wheat,
Her voice was soft, her gaze was sweet;
Yet none who looked into her eyes
Could say what kingdoms filled their skies.
She dwelt where silver waters ran
And mallorn leaves were golden-tanned;
The evening stars upon her hair
Seemed caught and sleeping softly there.
The Hobbits heard her name with awe—
Then later learned what awe was for;
For those who walked beneath her trees
Remembered light upon their knees.
And when the dark came down the land,
She gave a gift with gentle hand:
A little light, a little grace,
A memory of a brighter place.
But all things pass that once were fair;
The Elven ships went down the air.
And westward, where the grey waves shone,
The Lady went, and went alone.
The shore was pale. The day was still.
The wind lay sleeping on the hill.
No trumpet sounded in the rain;
No king rode forth to call her name.
She only turned her face away
From Middle-earth and fading day,
And took the road the Elves had known
Beyond the sunset, past the stone.
Long after, in the Shire at night,
When windows glowed with candlelight,
The old folk told how she had gone
Beneath the last and fading sun.
And children asked, “Will she return?”
The old ones smiled beside the fire.
“Nay, child. The West is very far.
But sometimes, when the evening star
Hangs low above the western tree,
A little gold comes back to thee.
“And if the wind is soft and clear,
And silver leaves are whispering near,
Then hush thy song and listen well—
Perhaps the Lady casts her spell.”
So still the Hobbits sing her name
When summer fields are bright with flame;
Not as a queen whom kings obeyed,
But as the light that would not fade.
For she was old when tales began,
And wise beyond the years of Man;
Yet somewhere, in the western foam,
She left one golden road to home.
And when the last small fires are low,
And winter stars begin to show,
The Hobbits lift their cups and say:
“Good night, fair Lady. Westward, away.
“Go where the white shores meet the sea;
Keep one small star for memory.
And if you hear the Shire sing—
Remember us, remembering.”
秋陽留痕
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秋陽暖我身 |
The autumn sun warms me |
The Waiting Flame
The night leans near my door,
and the rain is whispering there;
the curtains breathe, the lamplight wanes,
and something moves upon the air—
not wind, not rain, but something more
than either, and less than a name.
The room has grown strangely still;
the clock is far away.
The wine is warm, the window dark,
the last pale edges of the day
have fallen from the sill;
and my heart, that would have slept,
has waked beneath its quiet keeping.
O beautiful night,
how softly thou dost enter—
not as a storm, nor as a flame,
but slowly, as the tide draws nearer,
leaving no mark in sight
until the shore is changed.
I taste the hush before it breaks.
There is a sweetness in the air
that neither asks nor promises,
but lingers, lingering everywhere;
and every breath my body takes
makes the waiting more complete.
The wine burns low within my blood;
my pulse has found another measure.
I hear the rain, I hear the dark,
I hear my own heart answer
the footsteps of an inward flood
that rises, though the surface sleeps.
And what am I beneath this light?
Not what the daylight calls me—
not guarded, measured, wholly known,
nor mistress of the world around me;
but something waking in the night,
something the darkness understands.
My skin remembers what I forget.
A touch imagined becomes a trace;
the smallest movement of the air
seems almost like a hand laid there,
and every silence makes me wait
with an impatience almost prayer.
Yet I would not have the moment haste.
No—let it linger, let it remain;
let desire deepen where it lies,
like hidden roots beneath the rain;
for there is sweetness in the taste
of wanting what has not yet come.
The hour grows deep. The candles lean.
The shadows lengthen on the floor.
I hear—perhaps I hear—the sound
of footsteps pausing at my door;
and all the dark between us seems
to tremble without moving.
Then nearer comes the unknown hour,
and nearer still the breathless flame;
the waiting gathers all its power
and gathers it without a claim.
I do not call. I do not cower.
I simply listen for my name.
For there are things the heart will know
before the lips have learned to speak;
things that arrive without a sign
and make the strong appear almost weak,
not through surrender, but through the glow
of wanting what they dare not seek.
So let the night draw close to me.
Let rain fall softly on the glass.
Let all the world grow dim and far,
and let the secret moment pass
only when it must—
only when waiting itself has become the flame.
And if, at last, the silence breaks,
if one low word should cross the room,
I shall not ask the night its meaning.
I shall not question light or gloom.
For all the longing that it wakes
has already learned your name.
Autumn by the Lomond
The Lomond gleams ‘neath autumn’s sky,
Wi’ amber licht driftin’ by.
The birks wear gowd alang the brae—
A fiery cloak for shorten’d day.
The Sweetness of Absence
The night speaks soft, yet softer still
is she who enters thought unseen;
no footstep marks the dark, no will
but memory, moving where she’s been.
Her breath returns—not breath alone,
but something warm the blood recalls;
a voice the waking heart has known,
that crosses sleep’s uncertain walls.
I fear the morning not for light,
but for the arithmetic of loss:
that what is held so close tonight
may become distance, counted cost.
So let my fingers learn her skin
as though the flesh were written truth,
each hidden curve, each tender line,
a scripture time has not yet touched.
And when I breathe her sweetness in,
I do not ask the night to stay;
I ask that what the senses win
be not so easily rubbed away.
For love is strange: it makes us rich
by teaching us what we may lose;
and every kiss becomes a stitch
against the hour that would unchoose.
Thus she haunts sleep, and I confess
the haunting is the sweeter art:
for absence sharpens tenderness,
and wanting keeps her near the heart.
The Price of Silk
Your mouth says no; your eyes negotiate,
I let the silence bargain at the gate;
For modesty is silk I choose to wear—
And silk, once touched, remembers who was late.
Where the Blood Went Quiet
The room grew thin—not dark, but wide,
As though the walls had learned to breathe;
The clock released its little tide
Of iron seconds underneath.
The sheets were cool against the skin,
The window held a winter rain;
Somewhere a kettle clicked within
The ordinary world again.
Then weight withdrew. The body lay
As something briefly set aside—
A coat still warm from yesterday,
With no one wearing it inside.
No trumpet split the listening air,
No golden road unrolled its thread;
Only the strange absence of care
For what the living call the dead.
I heard the rain touch every pane,
A thousand fingers, light and exact;
I tasted salt, then metal, then
The clean cold mineral of fact.
And consciousness—if that be named—
Was neither flame nor ghost nor breath,
But thought without the little cage
That makes a border out of death.
Below, the body kept its laws:
The heart negotiated, slow;
The lungs persisted without applause,
The blood remembered where to go.
Yet something vast had opened near,
Not somewhere else, nor far above—
A silence almost intimate,
Too lucid to be called by love.
I saw no heaven dressed in white,
No dead returned to claim my name;
Instead, the smallest things grew bright—
Wet glass, a pulse, a thread of flame.
The world had never been made new.
It was I who had ceased to press
My little meanings into view,
Demanding from the dark a yes.
Then weight returned. The ribs drew tight.
The room came back by grain and grain;
The clock resumed its patient bite,
The kettle clicked itself again.
And life—imperfect, fierce, obscene
With appetite, with touch, with chance—
Came rushing through the senses, clean
As rain across a naked branch.
Since then I trust the ordinary more:
The hand, the mouth, the turning head;
The warm cup resting near the door,
The living weight beside the bed.
For death, when briefly let me near,
Was not a kingdom, gate, or shore—
But how enormous life can be
When nothing in it feels assured.
Autumn, Unfastened
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秋葉落裙邊 |
Autumn leaves brush the hem |
