Two Men Across the Strait
The father of my father bore a red pentagram
On the top of his forehead,
Imprinted on soldier cap.
It flamed with a fervent red hue,
As he sang the People’s Liberation anthem.
Aged sixteen destiny, army bound, he knew.
The father of my mother owned a construction crane
For the bridges, rails, highroads
Standing atop the nation’s rugged stone.
His days toiled over hard rock,
While his nights distilled from alcohol.
By the time I was born, stroke had his vigor dethroned.
The father of my father held hands in
Hands with brothers and sisters from another mother
In the state’s factory.
The father of my mother signed deals
And penned bills, and fenced with merchants
From other sides of the sea.
They age, hard, but as simple as every other seventy
Warring in a world that unfolds their stories by
The universal timeline, passed down to
My parents then to me, who wanders
Across the two lands, pushed far by
A-hundred-mile-long arm of water
Where the soft soil I step on and
The cool air I breathe in
Take me back in time.