Through a white door, where light has shone

To catch the torch, the ground has lawn

That thrusts and kills my vile thought;

Ah, freshwater flows at heart and eye,

Sparkling the growth of grass at rise:

I think our souls are mending scars

By the fire that burns with stars.


As all men know, there is no life

Greater than some loathsome cry,

So, upon calling, roaring spumes

Came haunting fled by ripe ripples,

With their nature waiting of doom-

Like some parted weeps in feeble,

Softened moan, for that is still not

Grand to flood the door without thought.


Through a lost door—I used to call love—

For granted I be in this lot,

Amid I stand in this lovely pot

And my body infused with sore;

Ah, sore it gave me pain in tone,

For I to close this door—cold like a stone.


By Andy Liang



The Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris

The Notre Dame Cathedral in Paris

A Foggy Day on the Moon