I have turned my back years ago
on the smoke of joss-sticks
and the ashes of joss-papers
But in their place, I now write sheets:
verses my heartbeats inked
stories my breaths laboured
Papers that wouldn't burn
but burn with fiery passion
my ancestors would never dream
To receive from their descendant.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem