The night silence murmurs.
Knowing the sad fate of the poet.
Outside the Wei river
flows continuously.
Clouds turn into rain.
And a magpie has two wings.
A young soul flapping.
No wonder,
I can’t sleep tonight.

I have seen nothing yet
But I have known pain.
Seeping through
an ocean floor.
Soft bones and mean.
A dear body open.
 
What I am saying is….
I’ve barely arrived.
And she herself was there.
Pleading for more body.
With such an effort of dignity.
A beauty, still to be hold.
 

On a friged night.
Buses bound for the city,
empty of life.
The business of love, transformed.
And romance has no part of it.
The sleepless elderly rise.
To teach the children,
we were not untrue.
And as the black armies march.
Still, the roses.
Somethings last a long time.

A wild bird
flies across the
winter sky.
The weight of being,
too much.
A snapshot of
something moving fast.
But only a storm
that blows up empty.

Alone in this
darken’d place.
Barks a magpie,
hidden in a
guava tree’s thicket.
A new spell for a daylight.
Clean and green.
Just like the old days.

On such a cold night,
by a darkening window.
A soul recalling the frightful
echoes of the past?

I remember love,
and sometimes life.
Love and life,
that rusted over time
A heart more exhausted
by the day.

A world of tears
in a blazing coal fire.
A thousand hawthorn trees,
hiding an ancient self-pity.

And in a moment,
a coming of age.
A voice, unconcerned with era.
And lit with desire and care
To shine on my face,
a slow dropping love.

I stood at the corner
looking down the street.
Electric wires
cry in the wind.
A sleepwalker. A sun adrift.
The bleached roads,
like a country of bone.
With a healthy push,
I took courage
and opened my eyes.
The last fight. Let me face.

We did not look
so downcast.
That summer
of moon viewing.
Murmuring midnight
a magpie dream.
Cacooned by tree hugs.
And a mermaid
beauty, still unseen.
Each shard of love
dug deep, cutting
to the bone.
While mountains
laughed like flowers.
As the earth
returned to slumber.

Rare january bird
in a bare tree.
In a place
I can make it stand.
I’d rather read
an account of our love.
Of plum petals
falling in the wind.
Than see my
useless corpse,
scattered over
withered fields.
And never know
that sweet kiss.

I walked by the
river this evening.
Alive with waves
and old wounds.

It quickly spread
to the heart,
a swarming coldness
of welling thoughts.

In the time,
a tender passion
sank into my bones.
A child of the way.

It was nothing,
yet it was was everything.
A new spring,
spitting blood.

I closed my eyes,
to see you again.
Glimmering and
scenting all around.

Fluttering with
our first kiss.
As if it was
only yesterday.

Walking.
” Your mind is elsewhere”
she said.

Winter wraps
as dark as bronze.
A dome of old faces.

Each flag encounter,
without translation.
Old dreams left behind.