A mirror of moon hangs in the middle of the sky,
then drifting clouds fold over it, layer on layer.
When will the jade case give out its light again?
Someone lend me one wild wind.
The verse sets a moon-mirror over a sky of moving cloud — the light is not gone, only covered. Like the student who failed twice and later carried six kingdoms’ seals, you are in the discouraging middle: real ability, delayed proof. The last line is a request, not a wish — “someone lend me one wild wind” — and the advocate who clears your sky is already on the road. Keep sharpening where nobody claps; the wind answers preparation.
“A mirror of moon hangs in the middle of the sky” — what you love about this person, and what they love about you, has not dimmed; it is weather-covered. The drifting clouds are circumstance: schedules, distance, a strained week. Hold steady — warmth returns unevenly, and first to the one still calmly tending what they have.
“When will the jade case give out its light again?” — not yet, is the honest answer, and the verse says so without drama. This reads for the held line, not the fresh bet: protect the base while the sky is overcast, because the base you keep now is the very sail the coming wind fills. Proof of skill arrives before proof of income.
“Someone lend me one wild wind” — the career line of this verse is an advocate already traveling toward visible skill: a hire, a backer, a name that speaks for you. The cloud-clearer comes to the person whose work can be found, not the one merely ready — keep the blade sharp in public view; being findable outranks being perfect.
Spend 30 minutes today on the skill you would need if the big chance arrived tomorrow.
