by Leung Ping Kwan, reinterpreted from the original Chinese by Arthur Leung
Good Morning, Beijing
Leisurely morning of Dashanlan, old stores dormant.
Bicycles sweeping across in a row, and the sun – light spot – floating on the bowl of congee.
I raised my head, encountered a camera shutter reluctantly, heard engines afar, rumbling. Cha
The teacup refuses to show a face within, only the tealeaf heralds a visiting friend bobbing its stalk.
I raise the solitary teacup showing shadows flickering within, sending fragrance intruded by bitterness
while hidden jasmine petals gather and disperse sewing patterns. Light spots on the tea, hot and brown, counted
like eyes drifting in silence, or stars of summer that appear from sky’s entrance and vanish through cloud’s exit;
trivialities make distance, there is no moment to drink to each – meetings by chance were felt like fragrance of tea, faraway. Europe after the Rain
Rain. I sought shelter in the rain, meditators, the workers of solemn commitment. Mottle on four-walls, embossment of heroic stories, the course of history was played out by eerie lights on stained glass.
Among ruins of animal skeletons, between maps where scars crisscross, amidst walls half demolished and built I watched, cleared raindrops off my neck and found a seat for rest, leaving those battles of disagreement, massacres arisen from prejudice, and a subconscious strangled with seaweed. Those exiles, here have they found protection? Someone fed these beggars, healed the wounds? Nothing listened to my prayer leaving me to shiver in the cold. Tired too? – no answer, perhaps deafened by the vacuum cleaner, daily commitment to morning cleaning.
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