Waiting for a Permission

Poem

An empty plastic bag descends through the air

A red sun falls into the People’s Square

That’s the time I see you, grandma

Your shadow wanders within vents of the city

I see your bony arm through that long, thin stripe

I find your back in those hunched pipes

I know, you are waiting for a permission

A permission to take another breathe

I see you float through the air

Like a balloon fly through the People’s Square

In this story, the color of red fades away from our memory

Leave us the charming orange, sweet and juicy

Persuaded by winds, you pick up a moth orchid

As your only luggage to carry

Grandma, crowded stuff in the house used to squeeze my lungs

But without them, how am I able to hear your songs

Your songs are the glue for this crannied world

But I never know where those cracks really are

Yet chunks of land rise up around me

Surround the building where we live

One day the building will also crack

Leave us only with our living room

I will still sit on a cane chair

Watching a family survived the bombing on TV

I am waiting for a permission

A permission for me to fly out from windows

I’ll drift over the old residential buildings

Land for cloud-made flowers but not for an ending

In this story, echo from the ancestry is not crying

Only dust carried by songs, kissing our cheeks

You keep waiting

I keep waiting

Pain becomes the stream of our bonding

Every day your shadow appears at the same time

Every day I stand still at the same spot

We wait at each other in silence