Oh, Guitar
On a trash-collecting handcart lies a wornout acoustic guitar.
This was someone’s song, in those days, words hovering nearest to a heart.
No matter what, the wheels roll on.
With every rattle, moans ooze out, hitting offbeat with no score.
A song is not salvation, not eternity.
A song is not a song, is nothing.
It was just a scar, a blunt knife piercing a poor scar.
A knife lies there. On the handcarts of the abandoned.
I wish you who rejected me could be sick on and on.
[The 1st Asian Literature Festival 2017]
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