I walk out of a room
like a shadow from a music box
the rump of the sun sways
stopping dead at noon
empty empty swivel chair
in the funnel of writing
someone filters through the white paper:
wrinkled face
sinister words
in regard to enduring freedom
in regard to can I have a light
the heart, as if illuminating
even more of the blind
shuttles between day and night
Bei Dao
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