Poems

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Realm falls; hills unmoved. Grass buries the old. Grieving, flowers sting; birdsong makes me cold. Beacon fires, for months; word from home is gold! My white hair, scratched thin, grows too sparse to hold. King gone; land stays. Town overgrown. Hard times; blooms hurt. Birds startle me. Signals burn on; letters are gold! White hair worn thin won’t hold a pin. No state, land. Town mossy. Flowers, tears; Birds startle. Alarms blare; Gold for words. Hair torn out holds no pin. Realm; hills. Wild grass. Blooms sting. Birds hurt. War: months. Words: gold. Hair thins. No hold. (original.) Black shadow, behind the pane, and across the ceiling. The kettle hums and strains. The pan won’t be appealing. Wind rattles the squares with branches from the avenue. My body’s pale, pale years. The rain speaks Latin too. Mum won’t look about, won’t rattle the door. She’s cutting me shoes out of boots downworn. Father’s reading the paper for Africa news And Rothschild’s rich capers (he’s king of angels

2026 Spring Prospect (by 杜甫) The state is destroyed; the mountains remain; The city in spring is deep in the weeds. In these times even the flowers wear tears; Bereft, even birds can startle the heart. The beacons have burned three months at a stretch; A letter from home’s worth thousands in gold. I scratch my white hair; it’s thinner each time. It soon will not bear the weight of my pin. Realm falls; hills unmoved Spring buries the old. Grieving, flowers weep birdsong turns me cold. Signals flare for months word from home is gold! My white hair, scratched thin; soon the pin…

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