From home
With the roads dangerous
Snowy, icy and accidents,
Home is where I stay
But flies my brain
To flat of plain
Watches sun
And vulture
An injured
And the
Rest.
Dangerous as are roads
And weather, is desert.
Those eyes are swaying maroon red
Its red and hairless head makes fear
The neck is reminder of baby at its birth
Coming parts with blood folded, turned
Opening is there yet everything in reverse.
Vulture will use its beak as a sharp knife
Powerful far more than the phantom, strong
And shreds the corpse as if paper turned to cuts.
But in fact I read the articles on Jian
Reporters, observers, claimers; are vultures.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem