First it’s the wind from home
the father like a bird flying
over a river of drowsy haze
suddenly changes course
but you’re already sunk in the fog
supposing memory wakes
like the night sky in an observatory
you clip your fingernails
close the door open the door
friends are hard to recognize
until letters from the old days
completely lose their shadows
at sunset you listen closely
to a new city
built by a string quartet
Bei Dao
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