When a restless childhood was stoned, I notice my fingerprints
Sliding across a fused story, rain drops lingering and combining,
Calling the death of a station. There are errands of dusts fluttering upon the rock peak,
Then claiming the existence of an aged chimney, recircling a scream:
The train just horned,
Spitting out one person and another. Screams beyond these silent apparatuses,
Towards one single torment, a name at the end of the road buried under many
Demanding a whisper. But how... how?
How! I howl when the knife ran through the rails into my furless moor, which
Invited none, and surprised a winter - diminished roots still dote on their hibernations.
I forgot how to murmur when the iron bricks only fisting roars,
In smooth cheeks, and shield them with my finger pulps in their young, sealed
Fruits. And then I remember, greenness is etching its name, sends
The spring from that big mirror in parlour of my own, immerses another witnessed station,
There are fishes making bubbles, and many topics underneath a language-
The foreign and the forward, fleeing away as they dream alike,
A mist to endless miles before the end. The meeting, pours down ignited gaslight whilst
We people are illuminated from afar, and watching the beast reseizes her spine in its potent wheels.
Revival! Swarms of pikes falling into her watery eyes before night descend, and finally, she
Learns slow sounds when tongue touches gently to its jaded mouth,
Showing no haste awaits, before the train reunites my heart and let the lightened beast
Darting in, bubbles are fireworks of a raging fish.
YOU ARE READING
Tigress from the east
PoesiaA 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
