Sky

Were you to ask someone
To draw the sky
Most, very much so,
Would gladly paint the background
Blue
Clouds light, white, immaculate
Perhaps some birds, free
Here and there (isn't it so?)
And oh, lest we forget,
The sun,
Bright, shining, radiant
Great white beams emanating from its core,
Flourishing the life of millions.

Perhaps it would be mildly annoying
Inconvenient
Or even disturbing,
To imagine that someone
Living on the same planet
Would draw the sky as a simple, tiny window
Or, a mere ceiling
Or, a dying bulb
Or, even, green
Of hails made of lead and sulphur and chlorine
Mildly disturbing, yet glaringly true.

Were you to ask me
To draw the sky
It would be black
The most lethargic of the colours
The most ominous, the most fateful
Clouds would not be white, but crimson
With a tint of bloodshed orange
Threatening to release its fury
Where is the sun? There is none
In this forever idle, stormy, turbulent
Land of nightmares
Of inadequacy, of macabre melancholy
Of irrationality and undying suffering.

But once
Once in a while
A white light flashes through
A burning meteor, expending its life
Burning away its very body
To give the final vestige of hope
In this ridiculous sky.
So tender, so small, yet firmly existing
As if there is something
Some
Goal
To reach for.

So clutch tight to this fleeting star, I say
Wish eternally to the ephemeral meteor
Resonate with its death wish
And raise your chalice
To the fantastical, pure sky
Watch, wish and hope until it shrinks
To infinity.

Rage, Rage against the dying of the light

A lot may say that Hong Kong is dying, and indeed it is. Democratic systems and bulwarks can be blatantly neglected for developing a haven for obvious foreigners, while petty mistakes can be infinitely exaggerated to form verbal abuse against the clear truth. It is to no doubt that the separation of "two systems" is virtually not existent nowadays, even if we are reluctant to admit it. Many Chinese I know are brilliant, well-mannered and conscientious individuals who prove to be true intellectuals, yet the portion who have sold their morals for power, money and fame through collusion, even if they constitute only a small portion of the country, are enough to overwhelm this small city of Hong Kong, turning it into a wasteland of extreme crony capitalism and uncivilized coliseum.

Even if Hong Kong is doomed, we shall not forgo our strife. We shall tell the oppressors that we do not approve. We are murdered in a heroic brawl, not willingly subdued to power. To sum up, let us appreciate the words of Dylan Thomas in the poem Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night (another brilliant poem shared by Mr. Harrison). Even if death is at hand, we rage like millions of swords, like the unforgiving, metallic cries of Schubert in the face of the reaper.

Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night 
Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.