She cries for mama
A ripple on the night pond
Waking to the dawn
of these ! $ &* ( ) . , prompts
Met that girl
from the dream
A ghost from the past
More I do not want to ask
Typing limits his vocab so
Mo Yan only writes by hand
Th smooth of this digital paper
roughened by my hoarsing thoughts, damn!
An experiment of a long month
Gulping blood and sweat
Impressing eye circles
With it's silent mouth
These verses may not be serene
Mountain spring or pure
But my wings fly blossom
To blossom for nectar pure
Who gives us our names? We ask
Not angels, death or the gods
Listen!
Your name will be called
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