I C O R N
A Wandering Soul
In memory of Wang Ruowang, writer of conscience
漂泊之魂
For a long time
early every morning
the old man would say to his wife
Little Lamb
don't leave me
I'm scared
I'm scared of
being alone
A man with the hardest bones
whispered the weakest words
from the sickbed
before he passed
away
You left
with two empty hands
out of which
sunlight tumbled
as hefty as gold nuggets
in the eyes of the world
You could no longer grasp anything
not the fog-dampened
birdsongs, not even the crying of your
sons and daughters who had rushed
to your bedside
You are gone
No more will another man
say to me
No more
will an old man wander alone
living in dejection
like finding himself on a planet
completely uninhabited
No more will there be a second
a third...
O Lord
let the first be the last
give us no more a skeleton
its flesh stripped by
the crocodile of indifference
or chilling loneliness
like a block of ice
too hard to smash
no more
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