For 1987

The priest told me:That wild goose is pure whiteHe’s your deceased fatherresting in the marshes of our hometown, JilebuteHis pose was noble; the sincerity in his eyesmoved people with one glanceHis flight came from eternal stillnessas if roused from an ancient memoryWhen the smoke rose from the kitchen chimneys, he flewacross the hills like a silhouette in a dreamThat incomparable beauty waslike an arrowhead passing in a flash overthe doors of our People’s eternal soulsActually, I knew long ago in Greater Liangshanthe moment a life vanishesit has already been reborn in another form