Beijing

A poem about my motherland

The thick smog drapes over the forbidden city,
poisoning all that it touches:
every man, woman, and child;
every street, every intersection,
every building, every traffic light;
everything in sight
(but there’s nothing in sight)
adulterated by the looming darkness
of the smog.

Even the temple at the end of the street,
its once-clean wood once part of a tree,
living,
breathing,
emanating purity,
is darkened by the soot.
The spirit of the old tree
forever haunts the temple, alone in the dark:
every day, every night,
the spirit extends her branches up toward heaven,
praying for a new tree to inhabit and grow,
a city free of the cancerous smog,
a city in which she can flourish.

But alas, how can God answer her prayers
when he cannot see her through the thick smog
that blankets the forbidden city,
when she cannot see his face,
his soft words of hope written in the stars?