The moon wanes over the Eastern Sea, birds shake off the dew into a mist, thin as fading stars. Only she remains, motionless, red sleeves glistening in the false dawn, as if unable to rise under the weight of a leaden heart. Too many lovers: a chest of silks and discarded hairpins. Still, each morning, she plucks a fresh blossom to lace into her hair; each evening, returns it to the damp earth.