Old Shanghai was dying, losing between three and six streets a day. The modern city was strangling it among its many skyscrapers. Soon, in a few years at most, it will have disappeared. Yet, through ... [+]
Send me the sunrise.
You told me it misses me.
The pink, orange, red,
Breaking the horizon
Like the waves crash on the beach we,
No, you,
Walk.
Send me the ocean spray.
You told me it smells the same.
Crisp, salty, cold.
No dewy film coats my jacket,
No seaweed crunches beneath my feet.
I have exhaust,
Here.
Send me one of those round stones.
You told me they still skip.
So effortlessly, skillfully
Each one taking off and landing,
Like the plane I flew away on.
Send me the sunrise.
You told me it misses me.
Send me the sunrise,
And I,
Will send you my sunset.