The rain fallen never enlightens us.
Bodhicitta has many faces; none of which
can be found.
People are woken up by the bell in a public school
for morning reading class. Streets are wet.
It is difficult to describe this moment,
when again and again we hear closestools
being emptied.
Now, you should believe even a rotten life
cannot stop the gossip above a tombstone.
We will grow old in our own clothes.
Our shrinking flesh stares out of the window
on the hydrangea spitting out
fishy-smelling balls.
About the author:
He Bingling is the deputy chairman of the Essay Society and a member of Poetry Writing Committee of Writers Association of Anhui Province. She has published Hour Glass and other three collections of literary criticism and essays.