Adagio
Late at night, the candle flickered as Li Qingzhao wrote: "Lonely and lonesome, bleak and bitter,
Deep in dreary thoughts I missed you miserably so." Who was she writing to? Her lost husband, Zhao Mingcheng? Or the past self she could never return to? In her years of exile, poetry became her letters—sent to a home she could never reach. She recalled youth: "I remember sunset by the stream, / too drunk to find my way back." Then, she had been lost in moonlight, never imagining one day she would walk alone beneath it.
Late at night, the candle flickered as Li Qingzhao wrote: "Lonely and lonesome, bleak and bitter,
Deep in dreary thoughts I missed you miserably so." Who was she writing to? Her lost husband, Zhao Mingcheng? Or the past self she could never return to? In her years of exile, poetry became her letters—sent to a home she could never reach. She recalled youth: "I remember sunset by the stream, / too drunk to find my way back." Then, she had been lost in moonlight, never imagining one day she would walk alone beneath it.
Late at night, the candle flickered as Li Qingzhao wrote: "Lonely and lonesome, bleak and bitter,
Deep in dreary thoughts I missed you miserably so." Who was she writing to? Her lost husband, Zhao Mingcheng? Or the past self she could never return to? In her years of exile, poetry became her letters—sent to a home she could never reach. She recalled youth: "I remember sunset by the stream, / too drunk to find my way back." Then, she had been lost in moonlight, never imagining one day she would walk alone beneath it.