by Erica Li

In order to extinguish the burning fire in Bastille,
The water of the Atlantic Ocean rises upstream,
And has swallowed my ankles.

On the square, the alarm bell hums a ditty out of tune:
“Run, run, and run!”
In the sky, in such a sky not belonging to any day or night,
Is that a flock of birds, or a wisp of dark smoke?
Surrounded in the shadow of the crowd,
A bronze statue with a gentle and blur profile
From her breathless lips, is
Passing on a question
With no answer.

Turn it into a children’s song, scholars of Paris!
Thus this maniac illusion is then made into
A children’s song, sung by the children,
Whispering to each other

Like an echo from the depth of the forest of silver birches;
Like an echo from the ruins of the palace hall;
(At the centre of which there’s a marble eikon missing one of her eyes
Along with her own name)
Like an echo from the fortress made with broken blankets and newspaper;
(In which there’s a vagabond decumbent on the street
With stubs as his grave earth
And a coke bottle as his tomb stone, inscribing:
“Expired on May 31st, Next Year
Date of Birth: Unknown”)

Grasp my sleeves tightly, please!
Water has already drowned my knees and been kissing my navel.
It’s redder than wine,
And sourer than acid.
But where’s fire?
Where’s the fire?
“Fire is there and everywhere.
Even the toll is burned to the ground;
Even the deadwoods are painted in glow, reviving to their best years;
Even the castle-like cathedral holds her breath, hiding herself
behind other churches.”
But I can’t see any of them, can’t hear any of them
I just try my best to believe, try my best to admit
That there’s an invisible fire burning in my body.

Thus Sirens have returned to this city along the river of Seine.
Crooning their songs, you then wave to them.
Their sharp teeth is stained
With the blood of the dead soldiers stabbed by pikes,
With the smell from a burning cigarette forever haunting around fingers.
Is that their hair, made of float grass?
Or just float grass is their natural hair?
So dark and flowing,
So thick and flocking.

Making love with sirens,
You chat with me once in a while,
“Still remember that seagull?
Again she has built a nest at the east tower,
Like what she always did in the past days and past years,
Not moving an inch.
Let’s have a cup of coffee,
Though the hot drinks here are no more than hogwash.”
Just drink it, like it’s a lemonade, syrup of plum, or orgeat!
Just drink it, with warm melodies and a warm bed!
Just swig such a sweet winter!
Its blizzard burns all tongues,
With hail bombarding
And piercing all empty heads.

I’m not a siren, or perhaps used to be a mermaid.
Who crept ashore before the setting sun devoured the whole land,
Wrapped herself in a fishnet hanging on a phoenix tree,
Begging the kids playing beneath,
“Come! Scrape these golden scales off with dagger!
Cut it into a beautiful pair of legs with scissor!”
Thus the blood, along the trunk, dropped into soil, and kept falling
Until splashing on the other half of the earth.
“Well, just get your needle,” you said,
“With golden threads, silver threads, and cobweb threads,
You can stitch up your legs well;
And paste it with pearl shells, in the pattern of mermaid scales,
And not a single inch of skin will be exposed.”

But I can’t see the fire.
I’m seared and drained, with water hugging my neck and kissing my chin deep.
That pair of glass pellets, wrapping inside numerous dark nights.
That limpid and shimmering torso
Reflects the roaring blaze on my body.

I walk on the border between rivers and lands,
And thus have betrayed the rivers and oceans.
And thus I’m destined to be drowned to death
On this burning land.

Born and raised in Macau, Erica Li is currently living in Shanghai after graduated from East Normal China University. She joined Macau Pen in 2017, and she writes articles for Macau Daily News as a columnist. Her novels and poems have been published in in magazines in China, Taiwan, and Hong Kong.