Isn't it Beautiful?
We are in different flats
Stacking the same frozen food into the fridge
Stacking the same frozen food into the fridge
Isn't it beautiful？
Isn’t it beautiful that we are drinking the same volvic?
Isn’t it beautiful that we are eating the same crisps?
Doesn't it imply that we are shaped by the same quiet currents?
Shouldn’t’ we combine our flats together
And live together？
Isn’t it beautiful that we are drinking the same volvic?
Isn’t it beautiful that we are eating the same crisps?
Doesn't it imply that we are shaped by the same quiet currents?
Shouldn’t’ we combine our flats together
And live together？
I immerse myself in experiments with language and ashes
The faintest flutter of eyelashes
At my fingertips
A flick of ash gently brushed across the paper
Can replace
The statues of ancient kings
And so I bestow upon it the sound of truth
And the traces of falling ashes
Keys
I haven’t used physical keys like these for years,
First settling in London—my first “home.”
This long-lost yet familiar feeling lingers,
A blend of freshness and culture shock.
Every time I walk, they’re something I check—
A ritual of worry I can’t quite neglect.
But also a drawback, a thing I resist,
Their clinking sound, a noise I’d dismiss.
Yet, what if I imbue them with meaning, with grace?
The broken plastic sign, the stamped address,
Could it stand for a crest of noble descent?
Could this shape, so mundane, yet timeless,
Be tied to something far more immense?
Would their rattling in my pocket still annoy?
Or could I imagine jade pendants colliding—
A sound too exquisite, too rare to destroy,
A luxury untouched, even by the grandest portrayals on screen?
Distance
Mao Zedong is a mountain too close,
its peak so low, we can almost touch it
Too close—
we see the rocks scarred by the wind’s nails,
we see him age like a riverbed,
fading, yet still alive with motion
He aged too quickly,
too quickly for us to step back
The young, of course, adore Che Guevara,
that sensual Buddha,
with one more cigar,
and one less world than the Buddha himself
The smoke from him is rainforest mist,
a damp illusion,
yet scalding,
like a fire that will not end
Those who leave forever stay young.
I imagine lighting a cigar for him,
the flame illuminating his face,
like the dawn of a revolution,
while I am but the echo
of a passing wind