I can't breathe, the boots of justice pressed my neck. The black they say, my knees tremble
until they turn my world black, and now I wonder, aren't they skin in an angelic color———
or all those skulls dye them pale?
I can't breathe, the jewel of ancient crown drag people's eyes back. The black they say, othello does seem deserve to
crumble until ice into snowflakes, and now I hear, it is the cost of loving Desdemona——her porcelain-like dress meant to
cut in a innocent's yell.
I can't breathe, the poetries of my own land have nothing left. The black they say, steal romantics and nurture exotics, wash their diamonds into whites so they could be like us, and now I fear, isn't the meter of our own lost——my labyrinth and water idoto are the one get penetrated by you?
if I am hearing someone else's crying today——maybe an Asian, a Latino, or even an alien, I also can't breathe, as I watch my eyes shrinking on a road washed by
a line of blood twists the southern sea coast since 1870,
a line of oily eyes and ribs canned in cargos to plantations,
a line of natural words and land of spirits stepped by face of skulls......
That's the reason I see no sun but thunder, as those whips still lick on my back skin,
That's the reason I see no angel but skulls, as sticks still fall when my head knees down for a breathe,
when my heart is asking for air,
when my mouth is breezing for a FAIR.
YOU ARE READING
Tigress from the east
PoésieA 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
