A Poet's Believing Poem by Kinsley Lee

In the afternoon, on the street, the autumn breeze
is beating the deteriorated signboards from morn.
The political slogans, between the trees,
are fluttering as if the tatters to adorn.

For long time, the false's winning the truth
in this land, they're robbing people of the dream,
and cover the eyes of the youth
in a city at night, disappeared a beam.

The music's dying, the literature's dying
and the art's dying, the stars in the sky
are losing their light, the propaganda's dancing
and drawing, where the truth passed by.

The people can't trace the track of the pole star
and now the distortion grab the history
but people're leaning the boat's sides without the lodestar
and the propaganda's leading them in the name of the story.

The literature's dying propaganda's reviving,
the art is dying the slogans're rampanting
and even the shadow of the truth's disappearing
and the artists're dying and the poets're leaving.

On the table, after the poet's disappearing.
Only remaining the emptied bottles
like blizzard at winter cold wind's raging
without the smoke, on the ashtray are the dottles.

The full moon wanes and spring-morn comes
And the morning's drawing in dead dark.
The truth will win, so a poet becomes
an optimist again when walking the park.

The false're trying to erect the tower
of Babel, and to cover the eyes of the truth.
But a poet is always believing the God's power
and later the truth-lights're showering the youth.
(Oct.,12th,2024 Kinsley Lee)