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