Alone in a hutong.
Siheyuan, an empty space.
Agnostic ghosts speak as one.
Each has left something behind.
It is grief to me, that spirit once free,
now goes bound.
Silver flies all around echoing voices.
The derelict long lost.

A slow river flows in Taiyuan, the current always hidden.
And as a winter breeze blows coldly and coldly,
the queen-woman hides her face, the stillness exactly as before.

Oh, slow river, you are so lonely and pale in light now.
Only a flimsy sun to keep you company.
The odd rain cannot hide your water like tenderness.

Drifting rare flowers, relics of the long march float toward your banks, layered into clusters of yellow gold alluvium and images of illusion.

A river I have under my breath, a natural gift from an almighty.
But shared by the old women who pat the lines in our hands and tell our futures, silent flows, each day.

It’s early in the morning the sun dimly white,  thin air on the Taiyuan rooftops. Frozen thoughts swim to the dry banks of the River Fen, locked and clattered in the same broken run.

Why did you stay, but not forever? A constant companion sang the cat. A perfect octave in a moment of intervals, between margins of half-heard music and the last light of unclear whispers.

I’ve been wounded in so many nights, a hallmark of all the hidden places.  Like a sleepless boy who hates his bed, something of this slow fading is impossible to forget.

From my window I can see clouds breaking the morning - turning to see your shy-flushed face, that carries the shreds of a dream that I can't remember. Delicate spaces between us - I love you.

A silent walk to MGateau’s.
My own journey.
I hear their voices loud,
I hear their voices clear
Sinking in the dreams of others.
Faint sounds, all a faraway distance.
Some memories are left here.
Layers twisted into fold.

A liquid wind blows across fertile loss-covered landscapes.
Seducing and touching, enticing me into a silent embrace.
How does love continue to love in a place like this?

I saw you waiting, looking at the men swimming in the ***** dead water. A faint smile from an old woman, her eyes half closed and fingers bent. The sounds of traffic and voices over the bridge.

I kissed you, and you moaned slightly, the first moment of the world. As the veil of winter grunted along the river bank and the dark clouds began to sing.

Now the trees have too much knowledge in grief. But  I remember the faint-like layers of your eyes and everything that was close to my face.

Once the black armies marched in Catalonia.

A time when nobody could think. Folkloric and religious celebrations smashed, a fumbling of tasteless glass.

Bayonets gleamed in the half lit shadows of the internment camps.

We challenged the greed of those who made this affair
To teach our children what was true.

A momentary adjustment to the order of things.
And those who take your dreams to shape them to their own.

Now the past is remembered in Barcelona, Girona, Lleida, and Tarragona.

Fire songs in every town remind us that autumn is near,
and distant shots of rainfall wake the ghosts of those that bled for this soil.

We sing and march to warn the watching world that is entranced by Europe’s spell.

To walk free in the medieval winding lanes of Besalu, and drink with friends in the bars of Peratallada.

Dawn in Taiyuan, silent shadows spoke her name and unsubdued thoughts weaved a wild dance.

My heart swings, no human passions speak at this time.
I looked at the moon, voiceless in this darksome place.

The silent morning greets my soul and hides the secret sorrows of the night. And she so good and kind, her beauty hovers in the air.

Now I cannot see the morning moon and shadows tremble in cold despair.

As I reach out for the sudden echoes of our love that flicker in this grey morning light.

I wake to listen.