Ink shadows dance and porcelain figures sing. Mist-screened and red-roaned leap,
East tumbles a river from distant days.
Toll of bronze and ancient chimes, autumn winds and spring songs prance.
On wave-foams heroes fall and rise, their fortunes drape on ebbing tides.
Gyres turn and planets move,
Pass like spring-breeze and autumn moon.
Fires fade as the red sun sets, gone are passing distant days.
White marble does not entrap their souls,
Their stories are still told, their legends left to roam.
In an iron cage their children slinks, their heads bowed low with shame.
Passed are our glorious bygone days,
Gone are the horses' whinny, silent the war-drums' beat.
Gone are the merchants speaking foreign tongues, silk flowing on desert roads.
Passed are our glorious bygone days,
Gone are the valiant knights, silent their incense halls.
The past we have folded into myths, consigned as subjects of idle talk.
Passed are our glorious bygone days,
Gone is the white-haired fishermen, singing in forgotten tongues.
In the West is a lonely Trojan, besides him is Dido's ghost.
Silent and unsteady in the wind,
They beckon us to join, from Elysium their voices call.
I steal short glances of distant days and see that nothing's changed.
Green mountains stand on the horizon still.
Dull bronze and broken chimes, pass like the seasons still.
East tumbles the river from distant days, heroes will come and go.
Green mountains stand on the horizon still.
Dull bronze and broken chimes, pass like the seasons still.
YOU ARE READING
The Murder of Crows
Thơ caThe Murder of Crows is a collection of experimental poems I've written. Most of them are written as a way of relaxing, ironically, from the stress and pressure of exams and studying. I hope you enjoy them. They are poems, and therefore their only re...
