About this part of history In the woods,
My leaves have tapped over many people during their yellowed
Seasons.
Fragility and agility - two glasses of a historic yesterday cut through Sava River,
Asking about how hungry I was to be aboard?
And the waves curling back again, in their shivering feathers.
The seagull's wings continued and made us.
I was plundered in depravity and taken towards another tree,
And after that day, northern wind is among petals - of peaceful summer night
That was never mine?
Not Yours!
I swallow my improvised question, again
A piece of paper wrote about the abode of someone else, and the beggar
Crumbling up. Her hands have stirred much fuse.
We now hear the whistle,
In the wind. The steamboat, and slashes of fish, their ribs are against the deceits
And splitting the mist widely awake, I am shrouded in a peak of special
Calm, which is the water that carries us all and racing forward; now I am sure.
The earth will across the line between the yellow string and make us drink down
A full bowl of soup in twilight,
Drenching a requiem of one's fall. Many baby seagulls carefully awake under an aged shell,
Watching their mothers walking away
Alone. Their forlorn daughters are in face of those ruthless steamboats in torrents,
Running over their body when the winter still frosts, and telling me:
In March, swallows will cut me into shapes of their new home,
In September, love birds will harvest skulls of mine and knit me in some new reeds.
When we all are alone under the same belt of river. Our bones
will finally turn into blue and gradually connect the soils of many cities -
beneath a traceless bank.
YOU ARE READING
Tigress from the east
PoetryA 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
