Tag Archives: Michael Tsang

At the Crossroads of Eighty

When I reach the crossroads of eighty, an age Confucius has no advice upon, all I can do is to care for five pots of chrysanthemums. Why must ideals divorce stamina and decay alongside each other? Nothing will be certain, … Continue reading

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Departure

What else is lost, when Zeus chopped a tree in half, apart from the tree rings that whisper its biography? I woke up from a deep, deep slumber, only to find that we no longer stare at the same doomed … Continue reading

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Life and Death

Yellow leaves, Rim burnt By sweat drops Lamp post erecting Mid-slope at night— Home for moths Lonely rumbling Of air-con, Fingers in pitch darkness Michael Tsang likes to write but struggles to find time to write as life is so … Continue reading

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At 2 a.m.,

jailed in the asylum of time that compulsively sublimes provoking thoughts and lyrical words, no matter how absurd, to sparkle and collide, split and multiply, and congeal into its little paradise. but they are not rebels, whom the society always … Continue reading

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Interlude

stratocirri lick the pink pale sky bloodstained silhouette against the headlight Michael Tsang likes to write but struggles to find time to write as life is so tempting. Language and literature are his lifelong passions. A PhD in English literature … Continue reading

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Usquebaugh

Note that the dog only becomes greedy after it sees its doppelganger in the usquebaugh; the shadow gets the bone and smirks from the bottom of the river bed. Meanwhile no one in the jungle asks why it has to … Continue reading

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Night Central

Half of us in the bar looked alike, the same black, white, grey, brown, except that I was the only one who didn’t speak their language, Central-speak: Hey. First time here, eh? Hi, dear, nice seeing you. *mwah* Thank you … Continue reading

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