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The polluted Yellow River remembers a time before time…

before her weeping implored for justice. 

As the huangjiu drips down their jowls

onto swollen bellies in celebration of her defeat…

Her tears become the Poyang now dry.

Her sighs become the winds blowing

the Quin Mountain’s feather-veined birch and oak spiraling leaves.

They want her speechless, still, and spiritless.

Despite torture, slavery, death, she will not be conquered.

She stealth speaks though her soul screeches for faith’s freedom.

Afraid her heart beats too loudly her dreams of a new liberation.

Her soft words become butterfly swords soaring and slicing.

Echos of her silent cries ring from the Manchurian Plain to the Cho Oyu mountains peaks.

She treads gently but forever forward as she seeks her lost husband–

He moved too quickly and conspicuously

for them to not sweep him away like broken trash into a Shanghai gutter.

Before dawn wakes the noisy crowds of Guangdong,

she meditates alone in her dark closet hoping she will not be missed.

She watches the light below the door’s crack for shadows.

Fervent and unrelenting, she breathes in Falun Gong and out her terror.

Now, she is love.

She burns pink and white then smoky pitch.

No tea today.

The muddy Yangtze flows carrying no memory.

 

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