There is a land ascending mountains,
People walk pass by and I fleet
with time through the
threads on birds,
or books of bridge,
in China,
it is called homeless point.
It wrapped lungs mine, my mother's, my grandfather's,
their childhood my childhood were stored,
run back to a stone house, a gun, and a year,
1938, Nanjing;
from now on, the wanderers as we illusion of present,
could never bring me any truth
the petals still and my feet on them,
or why would I hear a cry,
shadows in same blood, same shout, same sore, and same same same...
from lands of everywhere or nowhere?
We are the homeless veterans of this age,
we are the blessed veterans of this fate.
Stirring and struggling,
we lasting and living.
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
