Sitting in front of my desk,
I stare at the lifeless
reflections on the windows
on skyscrapers,
where there is supposed
to be the moon.
At my hand,
the great grassland
in Hulunbuir sits quietly
in an old photo —
It was morning.
The sky breathed to
redraw the land where
waves of swaying
grass scattered seeds
like rain. I was still naïve
and artless. Every week,
my uncle would drive me
to the grassland. We’d
feed sheep and ride horses,
the horseback would carry
the small of my weight,
mountains faraway
rising and falling as if
they were breathing.
We’d swim in the morning
breeze and watch the sun
climb up from under-earth,
how it spread a golden veil
gently on the emerald ocean.
Distance here means nothing,
my uncle used to say,
only the slight curves
of the earth trying
to embrace the sky.
After the sun went down,
we spread a blanket
on the field and
lay down to look at the sky,
see the dome
of the world fissures,
the cosmos light like tides
falls through. Skyscrapers,
please walk away —
I want to see the stars
once again.
Crime/Mystery Film & Writing Festival 