殘　　花

        The Last Flower

A stem of red chrysanthemum

(perhaps it’s really a purple daisy)

which is comparatively more vivid,   

(maybe it’s merely not very faded)

has been once more selected

to adorn the green china vase,

once again closely placed

beside the blue lamp shade.

While its variant companions

(together for several days)

wither under the moonlight,

quiver in the cold breeze,

perish in the garbage dump,

decay with dirty waste;

outside the open window,

at a side of the dirt street.

    *            *             *

The vase’s waist is long:

too long for this species, short and slight.    

And its mouth is wide:           

too wide for a single piece to keep upright.      

The flower has to stretch her leg,

to fasten her foot at one point of the vase’s belly.

She has to strain her spine,

to brace her body at one side of its neck.

Her back is against the lamp,

trunk terribly crooked.

Her head is away from the light,

eyes tightly closed.              

Is it because she dislikes the lamp,    

or fears the light?

Is it because she feels sad,

or feels tired?

*            *             *

She is half sleeping

when I first look at her.

She becomes half conscious

as I continue looking at her.  

She is frightened and awakened

when I try to straighten her.

She starts to gasp and tremble

as I blow and sniff at her.

When I stop looking at her,

once more she bows her head.

While I resume my work,

again she closes her eyes.

Once more I stop writing,

shake my head, softly sigh;

then I reach out a finger

to touch her chin, lift her head.

    *            *             *

One, two, three, four, five.

She has five blossoms open:

three are larger, in full blooms;

two are smaller, somewhat broken.

One, two, three, four? five?

She has three little buds:

two with slightly red tips,

one but a small green stud.

I tilt the lampshade

to reveal her original color.

I take up the lamp stand,

to make the light angle proper.

I see her pistils are yellow,

still vividly golden bright,

but some are pale and wilting,

some are brown and dried.

I see her petals are red,

or a kind of purplish scarlet,

but some are pink and withering,

some are crumpled and violet.

    *            *             *

Putting down the lamp,

pushing my paper aside,

I lean back, look in the room;

then look at the sky and outside.

All is quiet,

and all is silent.

Soon l feel cold,

also lonely and sullen.

My eyes return to the flower,

the flower now is also quiet.

Suddenly a flurry comes through the window!

She is startled -- shudders and shivers slightly.

    *            *             *

One of the blooms shamefully lowers her eyes.

Another one gratefully bows her head.

Why do they so react?

One of the blooms forcefully turns her face.    

Another one loftily lifts her head.

They are hurting their necks!

The green bud pricks her ears.

She listens curiously.

She seems devout.

A red bud opens her eyes.

She stares furiously.

She seems defiant!

The third bud tilts her head.

She tilts…skeptically.

She looks hostile.

Another bloom cocks her eyes.

She cocks…scornfully.

She looks horrible!

One blossom faintly nods her head.

One feebly wobbles her head.

She tries to smile.

She tries to smirk.

One crazily shakes her head.

Two quirkily jerk their heads.

Some, snort.

Some, snicker.

Two straighten up to laugh!

I hear some one loudly sign.

Some bow their heads to weep.

One raises her fists to cry!          

They all weep and laugh.

All laugh and cry.

They all scream and laugh!

All cry and cry!!!