Seeing The Mist Again Poem by Yan Feng

I did not hear nick name when the smoke rose from the kitchen chimneys
By the lake in a foreign land, willow embankment, the sun is setting

Bird song around the curling smoke, a wisp of rising
Floating, drifting, like from the bottom of my heart to pull out
From near and far, without trace

The slow pace can not catch up with the dispersed smoke
Only the eyes do not give up chasing far
It's like a dinner waiting for a bird to wake up
I secretly called out my own nickname
I can't go back to my childhood

Feng Yan