I read the poem on the wind, the train
drizzles on a lightening bough.
I wipe my eyes with sleeves, the silk
tells her whisper and
an antique bridge.
run over,
my wooden bridge.
From the mud, with mama's moister
in a footpath towards a everlasting-
thousands petals, pebbled land.
From the stone, apple under her black eye
bloods into streams so I would know
the world in a sudden, blasting bliss.
And there is his head beneath, a rock top
which I sit and wait,
turn over the wood,
and bury a criminal who makes me
to be burnt by sun.
So he said the deepest womanhood
deeper than ocean, Beowulf's sword can not reach.
So what about the lotus I prayed?
Train repeats the poem at her night, the slowly walking
lips faster than
a smoky dawn.
YOU ARE READING
Tigress from the east
شِعرA 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
