|
晨光輕輕揭開窗紗， |
Morning light parts the veil of the window, |
春醒
Lady Godiva
They say Lady Godiva rode naked through the town,
but I do not hear scandal in the story.
I hear silence.
A woman loosening gold from her hair,
letting it fall like a second cloak,
not to tempt—
but to refuse.
Streets hold their breath.
Wooden shutters close like careful eyes.
Even the horses walk softer,
as if hooves know
when courage passes.
She rides without armor,
yet the air around her
is steadier than steel.
Not shame—
never shame.
Only the strange authority
of a woman who understands
that sometimes the body itself
is a language
power cannot command.
Her hair moves with the wind,
long as a river remembering mountains.
Her back is straight.
Her gaze unbroken.
And in that quiet procession
through narrow streets and watching hearts,
the world learns
a dangerous truth:
that dignity,
when worn without fear,
can make even a naked woman
untouchable.
蘭花
|
花未開時 |
Before it blooms, |
自畫像
|
我唔係為喧嘩而生。 |
I was not made for noise. |
Midweek
Midweek finds its pace,
clouds linger above the roofs—
streets hum soft and slow,
hours stretch like gentle thread,
Wednesday walks a steady line.
First Woman
They say I was the first mistake—
a hand reaching where light had barely cooled.
But the garden was already listening
for the sound of a question.
Morning leaned through the fig leaves
like a secret learning breath.
The earth smelled of rain and warm skin,
and the river curved
as if it knew a body would one day follow it.
I was not lonely.
Loneliness had not yet been invented.
But silence had weight,
and the fruit shone
like a thought refusing sleep.
He slept beside me—
Adam, gentle as uncarved wood—
dreaming the calm dream
of someone who had never chosen.
Yet something in my ribs remembered fire,
a quiet ember
where the maker’s breath had rested.
Curiosity is only the soul
testing its own wings.
So I touched the red skin of the world.
Not hunger—
no, it was recognition.
The first bite
was a door opening inward.
Light shattered into knowledge,
and suddenly the wind had names:
desire, exile, mercy, time.
They say I doomed us.
But listen—
even now the orchards bloom from that moment.
Every poem begins in that mouthful.
Every lover who reaches across the dark
is answering my courage.
I was the first to step beyond obedience,
the first to feel the horizon pull.
If there is blame,
let it be this:
I loved the world
before it knew
how dangerous love could be.
借風之蝶
|
花間一線影 |
A thread through the flowers— |
Where Silence Learned Our Names
Strange—
how those who suffered in the same cold room
leave with a warmth no summer ever taught.
I have seen it:
two shadows crossing winter fields,
boots heavy with thawing mud,
breath rising like pale incense
into a sky that would not answer.
The wind speaks louder there.
It combs the ribs of broken fences,
makes hollow bottles sing in the ditches,
teaches the dark to whistle through bone.
And still—
two people walking that road together
begin to move in one quiet rhythm.
A hand offered not from joy
but from knowing.
A silence
that does not wound.
Contented hearts drift softly elsewhere—
bright rooms, easy laughter,
windows open to the smell of bread and orchards.
They are kind, perhaps.
But their voices float like petals
over water too calm to remember storms.
Those who have shivered beneath the same night
speak another music.
Low.
Unadorned.
Like embers breathing under ash.
Because when the world grows narrow as frost
and the dark presses close as a lover’s whisper,
two small flames
leaning toward each other
learn
how to burn
without fear.
Monday Morning Yoga
It’s Monday morn, I stretch me spine,
Me breath goes slow, the world feels fine.
I bend and twist, shake off the fog—
Spring’s in the air, and I’m back on the log.
I flop me mat beside the door,
Me hamstrings moan, me elbows sore.
But up I goes, no time to slack—
It’s Monday, love, I’m bendin’ back.
The buses roar, the pavements shake,
But still I breathe for calmness’ sake.
The city hums, I find me grin—
A bit o’ peace in all that din.
火門自入
|
你話門開， |
You said the door was open |
Echoes of Winter’s Bite
|
冬寒啄咗舊夢， |
Last winter bites the past, |
The Smallest Flame
Even the smallest flame can hold its ground
Against the weight of vast, unbroken night;
Where silence falls so deep it seems to drown
All breath of hope and every tender light.
Yet still that fragile ember dares to stay,
A pulse of gold within the dark’s embrace;
No storm of hush can wholly sweep away
The quiet courage burning in that place.
For silence is not master of the fire—
It only frames the glow more clear and bright;
And what seems frail may climb a little higher
When shadow yields a throne to patient light.
So learn from sparks that tremble yet remain:
The smallest flame makes deepest silence wane
My 3DXChat life 