Brothers

(for Columbus) In this season of hornbills and sesame grains, Your colors become sharper than war cries. In this season of brow-antler-deers and new rice, Our colors become bloody and drip like tears. Someone had sown bitter seeds in our hearts. Our children do not know your children. But on mornings like this, washed by dewdrops And warm sunshine, I feel the soft touch of clouds from your hills, And wish to stand again on your village's hunchback, Where wild lilies bloom with the smell of a baby sun; But for the black stings of tongues in the news. Fear chains me with rusty grip, although I keep remembering the song, wind of change, We once sang plucking strings of brotherhood. I wish to see you arriving, to wish me prosperity, Walking on fresh stubbles after the harvest. This rift dividing us is becoming wider. But the togetherness of us in our folk songs, Lives on everlastingly though. I hope you will keep fluting them in your hills, And I promise to stay close to hear the echoes.