The bright lights of the writing classroom drifted off,
wandering was my discontented soul.
What essays to read, what arguments to write, what logic to find?
Narratives are still hazy. I couldn’t find it.
The lifelong trivial, disconnected Chinese poems of mine, now cherished instead.
The revolving door babbled, spinning the unimportant words of my past into lines,
That may be pretty,
for a while.
But the root has no place to land.
I had to crumble up all those what I wrote and threw them into the sea.
I swam, swam into the chaos of freedom.
Is it just illusion? Rape cascade, moss vine, I saw the reflection of my hometown.
I swam back to Manhattan Bay, back to the starry Babel City.
The city yelled, day and night without stopping. I wrote them all down on paper,
and rubbed them into my heart.
