Beijing Never Waves Farewell
The clatter of mahjong pieces became
the nemesis of the night. Perhaps just
another round of a perpetual cycle that
makes one lose track of time. Tonight,
it was in a dwelling on Gulou Street that
cigarette butts still emanated haze,
bluffing out the room and the faces
of those inside. Those men, still
reeking of alcohol, intertwined lyrics of
a steady requiem as the night composes
its own harmony. Just the way
funerals are orchestrated,
except this time, inside the coffin
are the dreams and careers.
Beyond the Haze
On a train coursing through the clouds,
running on the muscle of men, I discovered
the oil painting palette beneath the sky:
the sky washing the tips of mountains white,
waves of valleys flurrying like Chinese
dragons and llamas flecking up the field.
On the other side of the rail, the sun
sheds its light, dressing the landscape in gold.
Mountain streams unravel like sleeves of
Kahta thread into veins of delta, just like how
Beijing spreads its warmth to the border
-lands. Upcoming is a tunnel, and I see myself
floating in the dark. On the black canvas,
I painted a Tibetan flag, letting the paint wash
over every bit of me that reeked of the cities,
replaced with the milky fermentation of the Chhang
laced with yak butter tea. Beyond the tunnel
rests the Tangla Mountains, tracing out
the legend of a Buddhist Guardian, its blood
violaceous as Zang Hong Hua. On a train
levelling the momentum of the wind, I trailed
the distant hymns of the Dungchen as I entered
Lhasa, forgetting the hums of the city.
Yixuan Wu is Chinese and currently lives in the Philippines. He is a junior attending school in Manila and will graduate in the year 2022. When he is not studying mathematics, he is either exploring different genres of music or chatting with his peers.