Among the silent ranges the snow flurries on and gets drunk in the pavilion.
The frosting air and the sudden croak wakes the dreaming farmer.
Donning his kasa and laying his eyes on the depressed grey sky, he wipes his tears yet dry
Searching for his footprints which had through it all been thoroughly covered over.
山寂雪迷醉庭轩
霜寒乌啼惊梦农
笠戴掷目于蒙苍
舍泪回眸迹已空
rEAD bOKONON
BY TAICHENG JIN
Rhythm and rhyme are herbs to my ailments.
Flowing brush strokes are the counselors to my
Cold and clammy rationality and the occasionally
Hot and presumptuous mind of a machine.
I see through the iron gate his closed eyes
And the sky grey and depressed of sun.
He has a ruby blanket over half of his torso
While the warm glow of the lamp strays off.
Rachmaninoff is playing his own concerto,
And the flatter projection of an old recording
Invites me to befriend the piece and doles
Out to my friend his long-needed rest.
When I walked to close the shutters at last,
And saw the rolling wand in my fingers
Eclipsing the glimmer of a lonesome city
Suffocating the room in total darkness,
I heard the roaring of thunder and wheels
Made to consume fire sweep the streets
Below, but with their eventual departure
Subduing a rebellion of my teensy passion.
The vent is putting out arctic breezes,
That enveloped my body and carries
It to the cot strewn with copper springs,
And a flimsy sheet bellowing to its might.
Time is not a panacea nor could ever it be.
I wish not to have known the heartbreaking
Necessity of lying about reality,
And the impossibility of lying about it.
About the Author
Taicheng (Leo) is a junior majoring in Government and minoring in Economics. He is from Kunming, China. He is a writer for the Spectator and the Enquiry. His academic interests are in foreign policy and international trade. During his free time, he enjoys skiing, swimming, sailing, and cycling as well as photography and cinematography.