Essays    Reportage    Marginalia    Interviews    Poetry    Fiction    Videos    Everything   
Spring View

My country is broken, / Mountains and rivers remain / In the city, grasses / Spread their roots

My country is broken,
Mountains and rivers remain
In the city, grasses
Spread their roots

Remembering this,
Petals spill like tears
Startled by birds,
I regret how we parted

Beacon fires have burned for three months
A letter is worth ten thousand in gold

My hair, so thin from scratching,
Can barely hold a pin.