POET
You speak of poetry,
how a brisk wind sends
shattered petals adrift,
as I search for a seat.
But you belong
only to a dream,
or sailing in One Piece,
your arms black,
destined to be a pirate.
Perhaps your name is
William, with dark locks,
red cheeks and white brows.
No matter: The Chinese
are leaving, dreaming of
twenty-dollar hot pots,
while the English sit
willing to pay five bucks
for pleasant conversations.
(Image: Muses, Wikipedia)
Voices under the Sun 陽光下的聲音 