BECAUSE OF HUAI, STUMBLING OVER WANG
I remembered a well-known poem by Tu Mu (杜牧 'dou muk'), a famous Chinese literateur, which roughly runs thus: "smoke enfolds the frigid water moonlight enfolds the sands, night mooring at the Jin Huai near a wine shop, the bar girl does not know a forlorn country's sorrow, across the river she still sings "the back courtyard flower".
All the words till 亡 were clear in my head.
泊秦淮 by 杜牧
In Cantonese pronunciation: 'yin lung hon-suei yuet lung saa; ye bok cheun-waai gan jau-kaa; seung-nui pat chi mong gwok han; gaak kong yau cheung hau ting faa'.
Mid to late Tang Dynasty. Regulated verse, meaning five or seven syllables per line, end rhyme excepting the third line in each quatrain.
It's a lovely poem.
Near me, a big gay guy was working on his pony tail, several young people were drinking too much, and a paranoid woman was gibbering to herself.
The gender-fluid person, who is in the process of transitioning, seems to have become older and pudgier, maybe that's the hormones.
After finishing my drink I went to Bob's for a maple cake donut. Upon returning home I looked up the poem. Turns out that "wang" (亡) is among the simplest words to spell, being only three strokes in all (亠 plus 乚).
I should have remembered it, but it is seldom used nowadays.
亡國 ('mong gwok'): a vanquished nation.
The poor roam around Polk Street late at night, radiating desperation.
Millennials do not notice and continue their cheerful indulgence.
The final dot of the water radical (氵) carries through to the beginning stroke of white (白), or of the man (亻) within the sparrow (隹).
Jab down, then back diagonally upwards.
Lower left, upper right.
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