What night is this, the seventh eve?
They say it's when the Cowherd meets the Weaving Maid.
The common folk set out melons and flowers fair,
And children play upon the steps without a care.
The brilliant stars shine in a dazzling array,
The flowing moon casts its serene, sinking ray.
The children gaze towards the Magpie Bridge on high,
Where silken curtains with seven treasures lie.
As if one could imagine their smiles and speech,
Their fragrant aura like a misty haze in reach.
Time flies so swiftly in the mortal sphere,
While sun and moon in heaven move slow and drear.
A year's long wait seems but a morn or night,
Their meeting should not be a rare, uncommon sight.
I pray you pause your mirth and laughter bright,
And heed the wish that in my heart takes flight.
I long to bestow skills both new and fine,
With clever arts that subtle truths define.
A golden needle guides the colored thread,
In jeweled case, by spider's silk fortune's read.
Alas, I sigh at children's foolish ways,
Their toil and labor but a futile phase.
Cleverness or clumsiness, by Heaven bestowed,
To beg for pity is truly a laughable ode.
Thus clumsiness should not be met with scorn,
I'd rather be as blunt as an awl, well-worn.
If one claims to have gained a novel art,
Is it not like pure wine, diluted part?
I observe the signs the heavens display,
Each star its duty does in ordered array.
The Ox Star ever pulls the laden cart,
The Weaving Maid ne'er leaves her loom apart.
The Ox Star teaches skill for ample store,
So granaries are full, and hunger's no more.
The Weaving Maid teaches skill for clothes to weave,
So chests hold surplus robes, one can believe.
Yet who inquires of children, I implore,
About embroidery down to the finest lore?
Yearly they cross the Silver River wide,
As autumn comes, their lodging shifts aside.
To speak of wanton joy in clouds on high,
Such talk, I say, is but a cunning lie.
I argue for the Cowherd and the Maid,
To settle doubts for ages yet unmade.