—–
No one asks who left it here,
whose hands placed that inside,
that false expectation, that evil,
tickling, taunting, tugging at strings
dangling my limbs weak and meek,
for I am made of clay, mud mixed
with water, condemned as tainted
before birth, walking a quiet line
forever fluid, unpitied, unanchored,
neither serpent nor mighty dragon,
but a black worm curling in it,
a sink dark, deep, dry, dilapidated,
with that, which, like a bar of soap,
though told to live a normal life,
whose job is to make bubbles.
Voices under the Sun 陽光下的聲音 