Dead South
Déjà vu,
I’ve had this dream before.
Drop into the ocean
From a cliff without a fence
Never mind the scenery
The fog clogs the frame
And the seascape gray for
Sailors to fear.
I wonder whose house it is that
Stands so near the water’s edge,
Not on sand, but solid stone.
Stabilitas, stationary, alone.
Dewy, gloomy morning
Smoke rises from a cinnamon stick
No flame there, just a burning ember
Slowly eating up its path toward
The end.
Droplets line the misty windows
Like vessels of mourning
Pine thistles peep into my room,
And wonder in their green freshness
At the aging countenance of
A woman brought to tears
By the joy of this:
A shadowy sunrise.
Morning. Now.
(Cheung Chau, 2005)