Nobody dares in old Beijing—
the reeking air hides thunder.
A silent fang in motion strikes,
All consequence asunder.

Thought leans toward a slanted truth;
contention pays the fee.
For somewhere, someone whispers low—
Blank walls report the plea.

Everything is monitored,
each whisper, breath, or tread.
To thread an injudicious thought
could mean you'll end up dead.

Distance offers no relief—
pull not the dragon’s tail.
For agents ride on silken wings
to read your foreign mail.

And yet, the jasmine still unfurls,
the ink still stains the page.
A rebel hides behind a smile—
a poet, disengaged.

Paper lanterns flicker low,
Silent courtyards sing
Red banners herald portends
That dreaded whispers bring.

Distant looms the Emperor
In the dynasty of jade
Where impulse slays the endgame
Of all the endgames, played.

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