By X. Z. Shao
this is my tomb, my house
my palace, my ark,
my dome in the air,
my castle on a mountaintop.
Every year in the Tomb-sweeping Day
no need to seek me
in the desolate hill among the dead.
My father has only his name
left in my mind.
His face is blurred
and his tomb is less strong
than marble and brass.
When I die,
discard my body as you see fit.
No physical sign of any sorts should be erected.
You may come here once a year
in the day when Chinese honor their dead,
but I am not with them.
Read my poems and I am alive as ever.
No offering of food, paper money, flowers
and rituals of any sorts need to be made,
for why do you treat the living
in the same way as the dead?