By Huilan
Between two branches of the trees in deep early summer night, a breeze comes
and goes, vanishing from the garden where my eyes stop through out of the window.
It runs to somewhere to be alive and only I can tell for it touches my heart
in a special way.
The whole world is dead and only the breeze is alive; it jumps into my sparking eyes,
touches my skin softly yet burns me into ash. The steams sing beyond steams,
where somebody is sitting there quietly with a lion-roaring inside.
Perhaps nobody. Nobody is there but the breeze. Who knows.
Lonely rivers flow and lonely hills sigh. No breeze rustles through the trees the moment.
Not even in a dream. Empty. Silence. Faded. All lights were turned off, too. Faraway,
a homeless cat slinks by in the wood, and there is another night cat sit beside
her computer seeing what has happened but to choose closing her eyes.
But the breeze is still there. Digging into her flesh, sucking her blood, and more.
It makes her become part of the beautiful night by thinking of nothing or anything,
loving with nobody or somebody, and so on. The night always lights her so she knows
well both her body and spirit would subside. All would turn to dust.
But a breeze would be reminded?
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