PLOT
The soaked soil, Taking the shape of a mountain, Our river, Flows into yesterday's late sun, Fish try to shun their reflection, Bubbles wrapped the words filling up the fish tank, Fish die in between the gaps of language; Banana leaves brush away the dust on the table, Lungs that refuse to be cleansed, Thermos is a container for storing the shadow of the mountain, The inner shell broken, The mountain walks away in the night; Everything is collected into a shriveled wooden drawer, Bamboo baskets piled on the concrete floor, swaying, The grey soil flowing, Filling up all the old boundaries The dried earth needs no expression, All decisiveness and hesitation lie underneath the smooth surface