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