Rhythms Compose the Way
One’s memory
stirs
Where shades
have deeply buried shades
Rottenness thirsts for the calamity of fire
Stars sleepwalk
Falling into thin dew
Bitter leaves
crawl over scalding coals
In their breath pine leaves shroud pine cones
Someone is putting away his traveling case
Shadows that
hide in antique objects
Still tremble in fear when their names are called
Tears blur the epochs
In an
irrational movement
The ground lies on its belly to support the levee
A stream of white smoke rises up
A fall pours down from layers of dying leaves
Deep tombs
open in one’s chest
Revealing the arterial paths
Corrupted by many inverted rooftops
With stains on the lime-washed web-ridden walls
Inside which the dull tapping sounds
Urge a run towards the door.
Lotus
The mute patches of mud withhold their
sparkle
Strained eyes compact space
A figure
Stands on the lotus pedestal and delivers
Water weaves together
Waiting for the rise of any off-season lotus shoot
To target a flying cloud
mysterious as a text with fading characters.
The lake bed no longer holds fire
The wild grass has grown cold
Flickering rags of black butterflies
shoot out from explosions of tree root
Water weaves together memories
of yesterday’s scent
of yesterday’s silhouette
lucid in the falling leaves of human voices
The human voice grows indiscernible
It is not as fearsome, as fingers that
clip a lotus
emaciated under a transparent robe.
Rottenness thirsts for the calamity of fire
Stars sleepwalk
Falling into thin dew
In their breath pine leaves shroud pine cones
Someone is putting away his traveling case
Still tremble in fear when their names are called
Tears blur the epochs
The ground lies on its belly to support the levee
A stream of white smoke rises up
A fall pours down from layers of dying leaves
Revealing the arterial paths
Corrupted by many inverted rooftops
With stains on the lime-washed web-ridden walls
Inside which the dull tapping sounds
Urge a run towards the door.
Strained eyes compact space
A figure
Stands on the lotus pedestal and delivers
Waiting for the rise of any off-season lotus shoot
To target a flying cloud
mysterious as a text with fading characters.
The wild grass has grown cold
Flickering rags of black butterflies
shoot out from explosions of tree root
of yesterday’s scent
of yesterday’s silhouette
lucid in the falling leaves of human voices
emaciated under a transparent robe.
between the screams of ephemeral belts of land
the riverbed writhes in waning light
dusk holds day tight in its mouth
fire convulses
fiercely ascending the tree tops
scorching the buds
so thoughts can reign on earth
where the wind’s face meets a bowed hill top
a deep cavern exhales myths to morning dew
ponds and puddles find a heavenly direction
the river gives birth while flowing
playing in childish ebullience
the water surface turns to ruins
You set up an already broken sun
the lamp wick shortens
as kerosene soot says its last words
I vaguely hear the boiling batch of herb saying its apology
A flower opens vast expanses of land.