The Little House On Tea Hill Poem by Andrew W.K. Yip

There was a little house in a yellow wood
Along a narrow green lane on Tea Hill.
Bold and proud in the wind it stood
A shelter of love, a home of memories still.

Solid it stood through the years.
Sunrise or sunset, through happiness and tears.
Those fleeting years - golden or grim; gay or gray,
A tapestry of dreams and hopes each day.

But if its walls and stairs could talk,
They would speak of Man's abuse of Nature's walk,
And about times or climes of gripping fear,
Of despair, danger and death ever so near.

Terrible tales of floods, famines and uncertain fate,
Of repression, rebellion and reprisals of consuming hate.
Then fell over the house a strange and awesome hush
As frightened sparrows flew off in a rush.

Away, away from the hill of oblivion and its narrow green lanes,
Pain had come unwelcomed to stay.
With its stinging swords and crimson chains,
She locked the house and blocked the way.

So, there the little house on Tea Hill stood,
Lonely, desolate and dirty in a narrow lane.
Sparrows returned and chirped merry in the yellow wood.
But the little lonely house still longed and cried in vain.



(The little house on Tea Hill refers to Andrew`s ancestral house in Cha Shan, Dongguan, in Southern China.}