By. Ying Toulang
Tr. Chen Mo
It is too feeble for my hometown to move forward anymore
As something stops in the halfway
I remember ,that year, I was greeted by some of the left-behind elderly
The village looked like rocks hidden deeply in the mountains
It exists in loneliness for being accompanied by nothing except for the wind and rain
Guarding poverty, tranquility, surname and the teachings of the deceased
Only the few lamps flickering somewhere are the profound foundation
While solitude of mine was dismembered in wineglasses
As a matter of fact, whenever the festivals arriving, the outsiders spread
Out by birthplace would return from all directions
And the only one road leading to the village is filled up with local accent.
