A White Sun
An open door, a long-past war;
a history told in riddles
stars on red faced white and blue,
and I stand nowhere in the middle.
A power cold, a people sold;
on sand, salt and bitter tears,
ten million words seed barren soil
washed away by gutted years
A dead white sun, a desperate run,
the gloom of silence greater
than red, red blood and rotting stench
masked by clean white paper
They ask me now, through smile bared teeth, how really I do feel
Our culture gone, the dream no more, still unable to kneel
The feelings of being of the Chinese Diaspora watching Red China. I was inspired to write this in sympathy this this article from The Age.
