The six-year-old girl

drifted lonely looking for food.

Her dad had paid his “blood debt” –

a “village bully” by the “Peasants’ Union” subdued.

Her mom had left her behind helpless,

to flee to the South, the Party to elude.

Since she was just born,

fed with mother’s milk, sleeping in cozy bed,

clothed with flowered soft shirts,

she had not noticed such happiness instead.

While the movement was launched to its height,

who would think of an unfortunate fate?

But, between humans and humans

there always is compassion to demonstrate.

Then, there was an indigent old man

who groped for crabs to live from day to day

that happened to meet the puny kid

whose parents  had parted for far, far-away.

He suddenly felt pity for the orphan

and shared with her his scant chow.

With limbs scraggy like sticks,

belly being bulgy, neck bent as to bow,

and eyes round and red-rimmed,

she diffidently stared at passers-by to slur:

“Give me some gruel, madam!

A little rice, please, sir!”


There was a female cadre

while mobilizing the hamlet’s mass to compete

unexpectedly heard the lost cry;

she looked towards the street

and shuddered to remember

the famine in the far-off year – who believes?

She, just only five years old,

had to lick the cake-wrapping leaves

in the market, then ran to the alley

to lead her younger brother home all right

and snapped giving him a half,

the handful of rice spared overnight.

The poorest-peasant key activist

turned her head, tears starting to her eyes:

– “Although being a landlord’s child,

she is too young to know what horrifies.

That time I gave her a bowl of gruel;

I was therefore put to the rack for three days.”

The team’s leader then stepped back

to contemplate the orphan in various ways,

trying to look for any certain enemy‘s track,

but found only a human, truly.

The child having been fed

lay down on the ground and slept fully.

She dreamt, “Our babies in the future

should be embraced and breast-fed duly.”


Her assignment was to be dismissed

because her acting so had been caught.

She lit the dim lamp in the cold night

to write her self-criticism report.

Because of the boneless tongue

that is not steel but it cuts as in an abattoir;

because of the dim-sighted

that cannot see horizons broad and far;

because of the lazy brain

that is all rusty like a corroded iron bar

for long years sleeping soundly

on the classic pages of hatred promoting art;

because of the robotic bodies

full of tendons but lacking a heart.


Well, “Connected with reactionaries!”

“Off one’s political standpoint guard!”

She cried many nights continuously.

The oil lamp was so hazy and hard.

She asked herself and retorted:

“Why have pity on a foe’s child though fair?

Were I able to hate the kid

How would I have been free from care!”