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Travellers
July 14, 2023
Our way of crossing a prairie
blocked by herds.
Their presence violent, the way
Your toothpick pierced a cherry tomato.
You didn’t eat it. Waiting
For my answer.
You now say you are thinking.
And I won’t bother you, in case we
Are never out of the prairie.
It’s just that I can’t stop thinking
About the herds. They once walked
Into our dialogue, gently, watching us rambling
On cities.
Into a rusted winter.
At the time, night
Was not yet night.
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This is the first English poem I wrote. I used to write in Chinese. Thanks to my boyfriend, who encouraged me to do so.