little ghost by Joy Chen (16, Hong Kong)

there is an old man
who drags his lute 
up to the mountain, sits
under the temple roof
and plays his heart out:
strained chords, from the 
cataclysmic meeting
of his fingers and string

as we walk past and wince.

---

his lashes settle, basking 
in nostalgic memories 
of young love, real love,
before nineteen sixty - six. locked 
in a dark room 
for months on end 
because he, counter-
revolutionary;
threat to society,
wanted to teach children 
to read, and now that dark room,
pain-stained, convulsing
and empty, and silent,
settles deep inside of him --
a nauseating chasm of lost potential 
and too much time spent alone.

for in there, he dreamt of his 
children dying, again and again,
wishing the world would stop
expanding; implode, so at least 
his wife, love of his life,
could stay, a bit closer to him.
in the blazing nights he saw her 
translucent and wonderful
in his star-bathed, bleary gaze,
smiled contentedly, little ghost,
slept and stayed like that for 
days. 

in the end, it is man’s
own self delusion that 
drives him to keep living --
delusions of grandeur,
and the future,
and we’re going to be so happy!
we’re going to be so free!
the real world’s a fright, 
but you’re still here
next to me,
sweat-sticky and alive. 

he may have clung 
on to the edge of this existence,
a basement room, mould scratched
world noiseless and 
death-waiting, for 
one     entire      year    but     
 look      at      him      now!
on top of the world and
singing his heart out,
voice tremulous in the wind 
and warmth suffusing rosy
wrinkled cheeks — 

a god. 




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