The Seventh Day
The moon is almost round. At dawn.
Walking under the ruins of clouds, I hold two legs tight
As if there were a dirty hairy tail betraying my nonhumanness.
My now escapes into the distant, wordless, soundless,
Away from everything, cold and vast.
At the height of three storey, shades of humans bloom like hallucination,
Invisible hands sticking out of no-longer-there windows.
No clothes racks, no squatting potted plants,
No underwear or socks hanging on the rotary clothes airers.
No shadows behind the curtains where TV banally flickers.
Absence is more openly insidious than the past,
A fester that develops into a herpes zoster between the spectacular
Sandwich of rivers and mountains.
An arched bridge collapses before I come;
A promise turns into the cruelest precipice.
Everywhere my eyes touch, thorns grimace in anger.
Behind my back, the bouquet of carnation faints in my hand,
And I cannot present it to the smiling summer day as a surprise.
When I walk over to you, I walk to the dead end,
Flowers withered, an unwanted gift to the nameless mound.
May 22, 2008
Note: The seventh day after a death marks the most important date for the memorial, and usually the service is also the most serious. For the Christians, the seventh day is a day of worship.
Chinese government for the first time observes a three-day national mourning for its citizens; before this, the national mourning has only been ordained for the highest-rank leaders.