Shu Ting's "Ah Mom"
Your pale fingertips manage my temple, and I can't help holding your skirt tightly as I did when I was a child.
Ah, mother, in order to keep you drifting away, although the morning light has cut the dream into smoke, I still dare not open my eyes for a long time
I still cherish that bright red scarf, for fear that washing it will make it lose your unique warmth.
Ah, mother, isn't the running water of the years just as ruthless? I'm afraid my memory will fade, too How can I easily open its screen?
I cried and asked you for a thorn, but now I am wearing a crown of thorns and dare not moan.
Ah, mother, my sweet and deep memory is not a torrent or a waterfall, but an ancient well that can't sing among flowers and trees.
Poetry 2,
"Bodhisattva" Author: North Island
The flowing folds are your slight breathing. You open your eyes and look at the palm waving a thousand arms.
Touch the charged silence and let everything overlap and stagger.
Dream like a dream, endure hunger and thirst for a hundred years. The pearl embedded in your forehead represents the invincible power of the sea, making a gravel transparent.
Like water, you have no sex, and your half-naked breasts are bulging. Just eager to be a mother, nurture the suffering in the world and let it grow.