Wings of Peking

During the wee hours of the evening,
The sky painted crimson by the sun,
Tufts of white clouds were floating,
Upon the black roads of the city,

Now and then an airplane soars by,
Leaving Beijing and me behind,
And I an obedient poet,
Stay and write,
Listening to the wind,
Whispering stories as it blows by,

The city now wrapped in a blanket of white,
Stays still,
As always,
As time travels by,

It has been thousand of years since the Han dynasty,
Where noble warriors shed their blood,
In the name of their beloved country,

Warriors of the Past!
I am here,
Treading on your glorious steps,

Warriors of the Past!
I am here,
Caressed by the same wind,
Whom once touched your hearings,
Centuries ago,

Warriors of the Past!
I am here,
In Beijing,
Writing your story,

Warriors of the Past!
I am here,
In your beautiful city,
As another plane passes by.

Azalea Azarae