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Post by Changming Yuan on Sept 21, 2007 19:39:01 GMT -5
Above an empty sheet of paper With lines like the thin ridges In an open fallow field My snug pen squats As if waiting in ambush Below my window, my father’s shaking shadow Is shrinking slowly but surely Into a focus constantly adjusted By the spring sun of noon As he scatters some strange seeds Over the soil like salted brown rice He has been preparing since last winter .
By god, the old man enjoys sowing Even more than his old man .
My grandfather died at the age of 29 In a hilly village in central china He had cast every drop of his soiled sweat Onto a field not belonging to himself It is said that he reaped little in autumn Nor did he really care about reaping . Like a bridegroom planting his plump sperm deep In his bride’s virgin field on a mid-summer night I am now sowing, with my pen
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