No, my poems
No, my poems
traveled from hands to hands
and arrived here,
in an antiquity store;
a display of a turbulent past,
on yellow pages, where
a downpour of thoughts had fallen
and a roar of raging words—
after almost fifty years,
by a red price tag.
deep in the garden.
A bizarre phantasm in a still
A wound where
flows and stops
the air, thwarted
by the refracted light
A hundred years—
in the name of a billion RMB
its terracotta redemption
when time confiscates the iron-trace
*Zhang Yuan, or the garden of Zhang, is a renowned residential house built early of the last century in West Nanjing Road, Shanghai, now an area for bars and cafes.but news comes this garden will soon be demolished for a new shopping mall.
I was sixteen when the truck broke down
and parked despondently inside a mountain.
It was early winter.
I felt I was tossed into a vortex when the truck stopped with a screeching sound.
The headlamp was still on, like desperate eyes looking hard into a shroud
of darkness and confused.
No stars, absolutely no stars;
They had fallen into the gaping mouth of the mountain,
waiting to be fished out by the invisible hands of a late morning.
Terrifying silence came, seeping in through the windshield.
It forced into my lungs and grabbed my heart, the stench of the night air.
The driver was fidgety, trying to call someone,
No signal, he said and discarded the thought of rescue.
He was grumbling something unclear while he killed the engine.
His words lacerated the night.
I took the sleeping bag he gave me and crawled in, knowing
home was still far, far away…
Or in a good dream.
I drink tonight, to the city that weeps.
A toast it shall be,
from the lips of a man who loves truly
the vast lands of China.
— she deserves better;
But it doesn’t matter now, does it?
Salvation comes to those who need it not.
An old woman by the garbage dump—
A black dog with a severed tail—
Everyone is drifting into the endless night.
It comes early now.