New Year Day

Icy clouds fell 
On top of a locust tree

To dress it into a tyrant

Over the festive-vacated street.

I strolled to dislodge

Garland from every ornate door.

The floral zilch
Was such a sin  

As to make the New Year day

A faceless broken promise.

I rose to a call

From the bride of Spring

But only found she 

Was in self-contained narratives,

In the grip

Of the coldness of the tyranny.

Year End

The year end, on the window,

Is the last covering paper, transpiring

Increasingly clearer sounds

And an gradually brighter

Contour, rotating.

The daybreak hangs, fragile.

I hold my breath, standing in silence,

Only a thin paper away

From you,

Just like a shadow on the window

With its lights turned off.   

Home

I opened a full palm of lines

Trying to find my way home

But scars and calluses

Had overwritten all the signposts

Smoke

A person in the wind,

In his chaotic formation

Listens to thousands of voices rising

From lifelessness,

And a few short

Dying breaths,

Experiencing how

A calligraphic brush

Soaks up, and quickly

Empties out brandishing,  

Bringing out rivers and mountains

In cursive, or regular scripts, 

And Life, like a wildfire

Or like veins submerged

In a land with overbearing colours.

Finally stars

Reveal petals of peach flowers

In the dome of splash ink.

Love

So wide,

Yet thin, yet vivid and juicy

Yet dry, yet leaves behind

Patch after patch of

Emptiness,

Allowing wind

To blow the hollows loud,

Just like a barbarous flute

Blowing the void of the arch

Of a frontiers’  fort loud.      

Westward

Lies the vastness of a hunt field.

Shadows cast by the sunset

Scurry like broken preys,

While the person in the wind

Remains 

A lonely strain of

Smoke  

Hi July

Out of boredom

I folded the 12 months

In half

To my utter surprise

It’s your ardent name

On the right of the crease

Over these days

I didn’t feel so well

Your fine form

It turned out

Is the inflammation

Of my eyes