the waters, a mottled brown,
bear reflection to an overcast sky.
the boats with their wicker baskets,
glide silently over the glassy roads.
the canals snake like veins,
through the city’s sleeping body.
long gone are the Suzhou beauties,
long gone are the famous silk and tea.
only thousand year old walls quietly crumbling,
serve as reminders of my kingdom’s past.
he flutters above the lilies
wings beating with feverish rhythm
like glass propellers
and atop mirrored tabletops
that are the garden’s ponds
he escapes the failing koi’s
distant splash
which breaks the stillness
of the summer’s sun
we went to sleep beneath mulberry leaves,
and let silk-screened sunlight wash our faces.
how great it is to waste the day away,
spending temperate nights opening our hearts
under the platinum glow of the summer moon.
and in the shadow of victorious monuments
that celebrated a revolution of colour
we sat and dreamed of places we will never go
and the sides of each other we will never know.
thousands of years of romance
lap lazily against the misty shore
while the lily and lotus sleepily bob
on the surface of the silent mirror
I would like to think
that through Qin to Qing
you and I met at Xihu
to swear love in this life and the next
wilted bamboo and magnolia
sulk in silent lamentation
as the rain falls.
the steam slowly wafts
from the porcelain cup
as the rain falls.
you furrow your brow
watching out the window
as the rain falls.
the patter on the pavement
drums on the doorstep of my conscience
and no matter where I go
the rain falls
the rain falls
the rain always falls.
the words you spun are a heroine lattice
catching me in a web of woes that is only
reiterated by the pounding of the Shanghai rain
on pavement littered with cigarette butts and discarded dreams
Among the masses of rushing steel
That swirl and charge around our heads
The world stood still and silent
When it waited for our eyes to meet
And though the booze and the cigarettes
Left our eyes stinging and blurred
We moved and we motioned
To the songs our hearts had heard
Her smile brings the morning light
To illuminate her porcelain skin
Finer than vases of dynasties past
A shy blush paints a sunset mural
Floral notes dance in her veins
While the finest teas perfume her hands
The silkworm can never do justice
To Hangzhou’s beauty and grace
fire scorches the
air bubles with
seething heat, sweat
soaks every inch of
skin, so hard to
take
and this concrete
jungle is
boiling
with thickened
condensation which
drips from the brow of the
suffering salary man
whose lungs are
choked
with the fiery miasma of
home.
The hills, my hills,
Stand in green defiance
of the late morning mist,
Hanging on a forlorn whisper;
this tearful ocean.
Hold fast my sighing hills,
Misery grips us till
Our roots are torn from the earth,
and concrete spires break our backs.
concrete spires like desperate
fingers grasp hungrily at the sky
so filled with smog and aspirations of
riches and grandeur
their nails adorned with neon light
laser beams bounce off glass windows
double-paned, tinted because it is easy
on the eyes
where the lion married the dragon
this town is filled with the material
lust from which it will never release.
