The Memory
stands like a cracked bronze statue
in a museum
talking, smiling when we are tired with life
we struggle to frustrate
old pressures on our backs,
rain beats the ground, we flounder, slip
having travelled far, I came upon
mountains of histories,
dead lakes on which libraries are erected
wheels of the train
passed us
chattering like idiots
billows of future meandered, followed the rainbow
sugar and salt are same to a dying tongue
I must try to join
the broken particles of my slate
though the line will be there
and only keen eyes will see
that my slate broke once, and on waking was joined-
the slate with a line, not black, not white
I'll hitch-hike with pilgrims to Vietnam, the boss has said. yang be
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