After the sleet surrendered,
Beijing exhales a sapphire sky—
clouds dissolve into spun sugar,
wind sheds its iron teeth.
This German lens, once sworn
to contrast sharp as Black Forest pines,
to colors steeped in Rhine wine,
hesitates before such tenderness.
In the RAW womb of light,
I knead shadows like dough—
temper the steel-edged gradients,
let pixels breathe chrysanthemum tea.
Now the frame remembers:
how March air hums between ancient eaves,
how dust motes cling to willow’s first yawn.
Zeiss optics, schooled in Teutonic precision,
learn to trace the curvature of time—
a city’s slow blink,
softened by dynasties of thaw.
