Those soft, sweated rocks hold my untidy
Steady feet of the bare, body toils torrents uphill
From the east, and the train, as water's art upon ironed rail
Clanging no sound. Silence, mama asks when the foams bracing-
What do I hear?
Stars hang aloft atop each tiny little
Foot of a tide's end, subsume an old soul beneath a young fire
As she blazes.
Plenty clutches are her duet, unchangeable one with a filled eastern
Wind blows, a drought of home iced the throat and
her obsidian wavy hair, in colors of chiming blue,
Gazing a forlorn eremite until, the water yellowed.
The forest by then, in its profuse patience touches each
Toe of a floating leaf, when my priestlike penchant is solely alive
And, jump onto a returning crew to the land of far away,
Leave my lens from mists and sorrow, when they are still wet.
(The poem was written in Bratislava, Slovakia. Danube still flows, but where is my home? I miss my parents back in Shanghai :'( )
YOU ARE READING
Tigress from the east
PuisiA poetry collection written by a Chinese girl. Biggest life goal of her: sitting in perfect balance of daylights and nights, back towards a mysterious naked tree, a cup of chai is better than coffee. Thinking, turn a being as living
