China

This land of ancients grows on me

Like a soft moss, damp-oozed in time,

Sad breezes churn each soul, unfree,

And sweep me over, like some tide.

 

Strange voices echo from dim pasts

Long littered with dead Mandarins

I hear, I understand them less

But feel their presence in old sins.

 

While grace and beauty walk each street

As daughters fan their coal-black hair

The future calls to them, at last

And the world waits, to meet them there.

  

David Lewis Paget

Reviews

[Danielle Asher]

this piece is great but it leaves me wanting a little more information. It sounds like it is from a personal experience but with some history to it. I especially like the last stanza.

peace,
D