By X. Z. Shao
There is a time when dreams die,
all wells for wayfarers have gone dry.
What isle could you fly to
if pinions did grow from your arms?
Could you fly hills and dales over
where forests of arrows lay under?
Could you hide in a den or a lion lair
where all your peers were smothered?
There is only a river in your heart
where a galaxy of lanterns float at night.
Struck with the awe and comforted,
you linger and tarry on the shore.
O, light and launch a lantern homespun
and join the journey to the fog-rising sea,
leave behind, a burning lava-covered land,
an unease even Buddha’s mantras failed to mend.