The room begins to darken.
The lights from outside take turns to flee.
Bat wings totter like defeated soldiers
who call for each other to retreat to the end of the horizon.
Clinging to the buffalo horn, the day tries to graze some more sweet grass.
On the meadow of vast wilderness,
frogs start to croak their complaints.

My aunt plucks strings of vegetables,
releasing them into her sadness.
Starting a fire, she kindles the wandering strands of smoke.
Pagoda bell rings, rippling to fill her lonely meal.

It has been like this for thirty years.

My aunt is alone.
She swallows, choking on the sunset.