Would the dirty cloud hang there,
A little longer if I left?
And do you think that it can grow,
That the excerpts that escape the mass,
Making their way to other shores,
To talk about the debauched show,
Could also follow me,
Into my suitcase?
When I leave,
Will I think about the limpid air at home in China?
How many homes I have now!
The one that beams from afar, always,
Away from me or in costume,
Decked out in the finery,
I could never stand.
Do I love it?
Will I miss it?
Does death speak to me more than life?
My heart seems to clamber for some clutter,
Emotional and the extraneous things,
That would make me angry,
In the moment, scream.
A whisper in a locked room,
Hopping against the walls,
And in that moment,
Brandishing vicious tiny limbs,
No man could ever fear.