Tonight, all starlight flows into one silver plate.
The assembly lines grow quiet,
steel begins its gentle narrative.
The crane's arm cradles the full circle,
while sparks from welding guns—
now condensed into dewdrops—are journeying homeward.
We once folded blueprints into kites,
let tolerances and threads dance in moonlight,
measured the thickness of longing with vernier calipers,
discovering each dimension mirrors the moon of our hometown.
Milling tools have carved countless dusk,
now within the lathe's chest
echoes the resonance of a mother's call.
Coolant solidifies into osmanthus wine,
soaking the gaps between teeth of the Mid-Autumn moon.
Behold, that hanging moon-disk—
how like the perfect surface we've turned!
Clouds are steel shavings not yet cleared away,
while yearning is the never-loosening thread
fastening heaven and earth.
When assembly lines restart,
the sweetness of mooncakes will seep into rust-proof oil.
Every component, wrapped in moonlight, begins its journey.
—We manufacture precision,
while reunion manufactures us.
