Sitting at a top of...a woman or me,
from ache to luggage,
swinging winds to compete
that waves could not cage.
So me the kind,
shall not be a sin because
grey is a color without cause,
and do not know where to find
home when the ocean
flows for a piece of bone,
sends it back to land it born,
but root isn't seen.
So what about my pace?
Well lasting race.
(A poetry written at midnight or early morning, about a wandering identity of a foreign student in London. How to define me as a being? I am not a nation's belonging, my root is everywhere, or floating on water in air.)
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
