‘I do not feel a stranger…as it is for the vivid colour and movement of its densely packed life and for the beauty of its scenery…’
Two, three years ago, you said,
‘The source of life will move in cycles’,
with the map of the whole world in your grasp
island away from the Harbour.
that ‘Here, like now, there’s nothing special’,
compared to the meanders of yours
all belonging to the same source.
She changed. Far from what it belongs.
You would know. I never saw.
Near the rivers of foreign castles, I lie
with my tongue tied, with statues of strange saints,
the taste of white chalk clung with the winds of cold rain
once dwelled and rose from the Pacific.
I can taste it all. Perhaps I can taste it all.
A time ago before I got to the sea
the drops of the green ferries
drumming canons over burnt poppies
came back to your river, to my cup,
put onto my platter, a poster, a street, a shoulder, bus stop.
You claim her kaleidoscope lights. I paint her
Bright yellow, Glory, Smoke of the Dead.
You named her first, how it slips from my tongue,
how the People amended it with their words.
The water fills both my cups nicely.
I emptied my story, gulped tea, cycles buried
under feigned glamour and Blood Stars, eating up my land.
How would I know when it comes back to me?
How shall I see what all they have seen?
This is cage, the People sing.
Dwelling old rulers, entering new harbours.
They are drifting. I’m just watching.
All that remains now is the rain. Here, you lie, she says.
I lie nowhere now. A glitch. A nobody,
pining away the century waters that ripped
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