River on Baltic Sea

Butterfly

with peace and New Year wishes

I live on a deserted island,
Where birds are unwilling to pass by.
They used to stay, I tell the wetland,
Before the north wind stirred up clouds of dust from riverbanks,
And the south wind filled them with seasonal rain.

At that time, around Christmas,
I hid in tall grass, waiting for the war to pass.
Every kind of pests rampaged through the land,
Attacking those unprepared for death.
When I heard the music stopped, I knew it was the end.

Now I walk on ridges and furrows in crop fields,
Shining gold, sparkling white under the sun.
I’m still waiting for someone to tell me how life is,
But no one comes.
Twenty-four seasons have passed, yet I only noticed two of them.

I reach and start to climb the mountains,
Those formidable earth spines always block the sunrise.
The sea behind my house has been battling them since the beginning of time.
When I was tall enough to sit on the top rail, feet dangling beside the balusters,
The fields would rise in the air in my imagination, one by one,
And float between east and west, like many beautiful dancing carpets.

High in the mountains, no one stays.
Fire turns to ember long before the war ends.
I watch smoke rising casually from the hill,
Connected to the sky, two palms that play throw and fetch,
Transcending life and death.

People here believe the world is separated into five.
You die when you fall for either one.
They come from beautiful tribes, sadly minoritized.
I climb the stairs between houses decorated with snakes and flowers,
Till a stone house appears.

Ferns and orchids sway gently in front, while the stone-slab wall stands grimly behind.
I bow when I enter the house.
Quite a small place, so I lie down, before a tall, flat standing stone.
Cold floor, dim space, alone since the day.
I close my eyes, closing the grave.

I see butterflies when I open my eyes.
Their fragile yet swift bodies pass effortlessly through countless cracks, and bring in sunlight.
I fumble to the door, just in time,
To watch a river flowing in the sky.
Purple butterflies sailing in the wind and fly.

For a long time I gaze before words come out.
“Paiwan,” I mumble.

*Two features in the story: one is the unique south-north migration of the Euploea butterfly(Purple crow butterfly) in Taiwan. The other is the aboriginal tribe of Paiwan, which is famous for their stone-slab houses. I have the privilege to do some research in the semester and hope you like the story I come up with.

Final words: Thanks for reading my articles this year. I quite enjoy the process of writing them, whether they are about maps, poems, stories, English or Chinese articles. Writing always provides me a space of my own, which is quiet, unlimited, and with honest yet imaginary words. I also learn a lot from you guys who write such beautiful articles and poems. So thank you and I wish you a happy new year:)

River on Baltic Sea Website