The Excrement Of Liangzhu

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The wind arrived early, like a misunderstanding,
an untimely summons. The land said nothing,
but it knew those seeds—they are replicas of old dreams,
fragments of unnamed time, the first half of a forgotten language.

Because truly, some grasses grow too fast,
so fast they seem to forget they came from the soil.
They have no roots, yet mimic each other, echo each other.
And the seeds? They lie quietly, buried deeper underground,
like words deleted from a sentence,
like the sigh never spoken at the end of a dream.

Dawn is too bright, bright enough to blind the eyes of farmers.
And what do you say—Is it the seeds that don’t want to awaken?
Or is this land only capable of producing rootless duckweed and algae?

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