Once, I Believed
Once, I believed that a single verse
in a Chinese poem could entirely change
the way flowers wither,
how the moon climbs the sky.
I believed that this verse could alter
the despair of pathetic souls,
urging them to travel atop glasses of wine.
I believed this is how the conquest begins—
of the flock of crows that choose their prey before our eyes,
like a dynasty passing down
a language of mourning, their caws like elegies.
Once, I believed governors ended their lives like monks,
gently intoxicated,
measuring time by rain and candlelight,
guided by the pilgrimage of an insect
walking across their cheeks.
I chose to live in a lonely place,
cut off from love,
despised by war.
I dressed my dictionary
in a feigned language of politeness—
so delicate that if the moon knew it,
she would shatter into crumbs.
And so,
I let my soul float on wine,
like a barge scented with longing.
I let my soul get drunk
for all the lords
who thirst to drink
and whisper about their power—
their only power being the women
they believed still obeyed them.
Like me.
Like beyond the fog along the shore.
Like wounded clocks for a thousand years.
I waited
until my tongue bled and the verse sealed shut,
but yellow petals blew like fire
around my poems—
which I sent toward the stars,
yet they bowed like rainbows of color.
I asked:
Who can trace the paths carved by canyons,
where even the cattle are etched in time
and roam from meadow to celebration?
Autumn leaves
disappeared one by one, like strands of hope—
the inescapable place we are…
Something is forgetting us
so perfectly.
