The Death of the Hairy Child

What makes a poem a poem is that it is a kind of awakening of the personality and mind. It is an awakening to a poetic life that returns to the truth and softness of the heart. Here, there is a spiritual self-awareness, but also self-reflection in action.

The Death of the Hairy Child

Preface:

Like my lamp. No, it is my lamp

Faint, but sure

--Not the kind that illuminates

Not the guiding kind

Small, but warming me , penetrating me

faithfully guarding my side, letting me float

See me at all times. Keeps me happy

Keeps me, constantly filtering out the dark twists and turns

and those nameless hurts that life brings me

I.

Leaves from the air, rustling

Falling down continuously

It bypasses the silence, the dense branches, and the branches between those

hard patches

It falls gently on a small grave beneath the tree

It fell so lightly

It moved so softly

--Bodhisattva, forgive, forgive me, it fell so lightly.

So lightly, I could not

I couldn't catch it

Two.

I repeatedly tried to think of

A leaf, retreating from the branch

How much power it has accumulated

of the body, of the soul, between the body and the soul

All the lightness, weight, love and reluctance

How it is willing to open its wings

Like the wind, it falls

III.

It is the beginning of autumn.

Autumn means the time of harvesting

The arrival of

It means that the wind will be collected by the sky, the leaves will be collected by the rain

The rain and thunder are taken away by the soft dust of ten thousand feet

And my Mao, so small, so smart and well-behaved

In my life, it is like a tree that has just taken root

little tree

was hastily abducted by the unpredictable fate

IV.

I have no sorrow. Nor can I write anger

No big woods

I just want to sit quietly with that little grave for a while

The remaining three small parrots, also brought, accompany it

In the silent morning breeze

Their tiny bodies were like three tiny grains of dust

I dare not open the cage door

I didn't dare to give them freedom

I worry that the wind will become stronger

The shade would be too heavy

I know that in the distance, out of sight

Every day, every day

There are too many lives

Or gently disappearing, or

Swallowed up by disappearance

No one to love or to love

In the end, they are lost to live

Bodhisattva, Bodhisattva, it's my heart that's not wide enough

She is just too narrow

Just enough to suffer in silence

Just enough for a little pain