I have been always walking alone.
Rivers, they squirming to be a swarm of uplifting veins of their people's palms
That each time when I shriek my fist from right to left.
As if this fleeting, used sandcastle is inside of an untidy kid.
Roots would always thrive in her beautiful mouth those lips...
Those lips were never dead from streams from her land of a mother's breath
But the touch was never in its tenderness, the blaze tiptoeing behind her sweet, soft fingers.
And then, making her spit out one soul after another when she says:
You shall not speak! my home village laugh in its silent smirk.
Arms are always plundering my, hers, women's and men's and villagers' jade – like teeth,
We no longer speak. Torment of freedom was our first curtain from blazing onto homeland trees
It has been buried in those furtive years, written in papers that we can only read about
When four iron walls circling a square upon our waists, mutating,
The blaze is no longer ours, black apparatuses smirking in their fused, smoked
Ashes from their death,
Speaking another name,
Including the Yellow River of mother's brace into her bleeding wombs.
And then we say about the start of a dawn in others' tongue,
Craws shielding those prawning ribs to take in more people.
YOU ARE READING
Tigress from the east
PoesíaA 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
