Walk of A Dancer

(For Linyih Xing)

We try to find words
or glimses of the past.
Instead,
We find a body
trembling

in the September Station
of Ronkonkoma
where the train left us
with nothing
except the wind.

We pick you up
from a life journey
which has gotten nowhere
except to fear
of another stop

with a straw bag of ten years
in hand
and the feet
of a dancer
for more walking.

I want to say,
I know.
Instead,
we open our bags
from the past

that we can barely carry
on our shoulders.
We used to drop things,
eliminate the unncessary
until we found nothing

was indispensable
and the lightness
grew heavy.
Then, we put back
a few things:

Like herbs cut from the garden
of your yesterday home.
rootless and half wilted from the train.
Rosemary, Lavender, and Mint...
Now dry in my home for fragrance.

Then, there are the other things:
Jewlery, beads, stones,
passed down from our grandmothers,
mothers, or aunts
as protectors on our bumpy paths.

A jade Buddha
for longevity,
A golden Christ
for holy presence,
An amethyst necklace
to calm and heal,
A coral bracelet
for ennobling,
A golden Star of David
from a friend.

We divide them,
share the blessings:
Re-string them,
then send them to others


1992 New York

前塵

找你，找你
猶如找我是誰, 找你
走入茫茫人海中找你,
走入三更的打板中找你,
走入深鎖的詩扉中找你,
在一切放下中
為什麽偏偏放不下你 ?

放不下你，放不下你，
猶如放不下我是誰, 放不下你，
在不染世塵的關房中放不下你，
在前念不生中放不下你，
不, 沒有前念 !
在後念不起中放不下你，
哎, 沒有後念 !
在前念後念之間的
我是誰
是你。

念念分明
是你
遍滿虛空
是你
寂靜是你湼槃是你
生滅與折翼的輪迥是你
十年生死呆如木雞的等待
是你。
我的長髮變短你的短髮變長
在髮與髮之間翩翩起舞的
微塵
是一塵不染中放不下的
前塵。

2006/7/22

Birds Immortal

Sleeping on your poems
3650 days in a coma
without shedding a drop of tear
in a climate of low pressure.
“Never say goodbye”
Fingers of a loving hand
hold you close to
caress the wounds
bandaged by words
forbidden.

In the turbulence with no direction,
Turning right or left didn't make a difference,
death was the destination.
I crossed my legs
faced a wall against you
inside a prison where
hearts could not be jailed
despite the bugs on the phone,
and letters read by others.

Not a word from you, even doves
flew from New York to Guizhou
had lost direction
in the sky I wrote,
“I miss you !”
and stood on the wounds to look up
the flower that drank tears
until walls turned into a void.

Void, how could a void be imprisoned ?
What could be taken when you wanted
Nothing, not even poem ?
What could be confiscated when you possessed
Nothing, not even love ?
Small, I grew,
smaller and smaller,
finally I diminished into
nothing.

In nothingness,
I grew
tall, taller and taller
by standing on sufferings, so that
nothing could block my eyes,
nothing, not even a drop of tear.
No tear were the days
I closed my eyes.
Suddenly you came,
Without legs.
I looked you in the eyes,
Without eyes.
When there was nothing,
there was no distance between you and I.

It must be the bird from Guizhou
Stands by my window without invitation.
3650 days I looked for you,
Not only you,
Also the birds
dead, alive, and immortal !

(July 5, 2006 – final draft July 6, 2006 -
translated original version from Chinese into English July 21, 2006)

詩魂

把薰衣草栽在窗邊,
讓風把夢吹送,
隨着落葉,
伴着被蹂躪在腳下
顫抖的心
詩葉飄蕩在淺紫色的暗香裡
還魂。

那些客死異鄉
含冤負屈的詩,
那些不堪凌辱, 不能抵抗
弱不禁風的詩,
有誰在烘烘的火葬中
給你送行 ?

看你一葉一葉的
化成灰燼:
被栽贓嫁禍的母親、
倒白為黑的聆訊、
接不通的電話、
無望的上訪、
冰冷的灰燼.......
都交給我, 交給溫柔的風
我小心翼翼的捧在掌心,
揉入血肉
埋到花園裡
堆肥栽種

看窗邊無聲長大的薰衣草
看呀 !
風中如夢相似的
淺紫色
是再來的
詩魂。

(2006/7/18)

我比太陽起得更早

我比太陽起得更早

凌晨四點, 悄悄的身影,
走入逶迤的山徑, 進入霧靄, 步入空靈,
我要迷失的是
我自己。

漸行漸遠, 烟霞不斷聚攏,
前不見人後不見影, 我看不見自己的身影,
那伸出來的溫柔的指掌,
在不斷圍攏過來的霧裡
失去了方向。

在月色迷太陽未升的時刻,
我迷失在隱閉無人的山徑……
被冷漠的小草、濡濕的泥土、樹上的微風、風中的顫抖…
在迷失與迷惘中
有多少無人採頡的悸動。

我不斷進入, 進入霧的心贜,
踏向前方, 繞向後方,
不管轉到那裡
都是同一地方。
我安靜地坐下來，
坐在霧裡看風景
向左看向右看
無論怎麽樣看,
都是同一風景。

在星光最暗淡太陽還未起來的時刻,
在最沒有方向的失落與鬱悶的年代,
我比失落還要失落,
我比鬱悶還要鬱悶,
在沒有出路的出路裡
我找不到方向。
那些向前向後向左向右的方向,
是最沒有方向的方向。

在小鳥未醒太陽未升的時刻
我比太陽起得更早。
凌辰四點,
我安份地坐下來。
滿懷歡喜地坐下來,
不為什麽的坐下來。
坐在霧裡,
寧謐的霧裡有萬縷温柔,
烟霞和清風有無盡深情。
而我,
是我自己的方向。

2006 年7月9日

圖片: Stephanie 和友人賞霧

不死鳥

枕着你的詩
昏睡了三千六百五十天。
低氣壓的天空
沒有淚,
温柔的指掌不會說再見。
讓我緊靠着你
的傷疤、血肉、
和不準說的話……。

在沒有方向的急促旋渦裡,
無論轉左抑或轉右,
都是走向死亡。
我盤起了腿,
背向着你,
走進關不住心的牢籠,
所有電話都斷了綫,
書信都發給天空。

沒有音訊的日子,
紐約到中國的野鴿子通通都迷路,
把思念寫在天空,
用傷痛墊腳,
用淚水澆花,
把四面窄牆化作虛空。

誰關得住虛空 ?
誰拿得走什都可以不要
包括詩篇 ?
誰充公得了什麽都不擁有
包括愛情 ?
我變得愈來愈渺小,
變得什麽都不是
以至一無所有 !

厚重的傷痛把站在上面的我
墊高,
擋不住視線.....
一無所有沒有眼淚,
在沒有眼淚的的日子裡,
我閉起眼睛,
你卻翩然而至, 不必用蹆,
深情看你, 不用眼睛,
一無所有沒有距離 !

那一定是北方不請自來的鳥,
站在我的窗邊 !
找你三千六百五十天,
不光找你,
還找那些已死的、未死的、和不死的鳥 !


(2006年7月5日, 7月6 日完稿)

一朿心花

(悼阿余)

你一拍桌子
便檢起
整片被出賣的
青春
頭也不回的
去了

四人幫
中國
四人幫
你顫抖的唇中
有淚

丟棄了的博士後
葬送了的年華
摧殘過的愛戀
像一陣風
撩起了
紐約的
相思

你的眼中
有火
燃燒着剩餘的
灰燼
直至眼皮
綑乏
心力
交疲
嘴吧
閉起
連火花
也熄滅了

我卻跑遍天涯
到處找你

今天
你在那裡?
我遠道歸來
看你呢 !
我追隨着你的夢
回來了

明天
你又在那裡呢 ?
我把渺茫的
希望
寫在風塵中
拿着你的
名字
到每一個
相識,
和不相識
的人那裡
尋訪

我緊握着
一朿心花
要到你的
墓前
獻上


November 24, 1986 香港南丫島凌辰五時

對望

(給 Yoko)

我不願意
回到我來自的地方
我情願流浪
我情願孤單
我情願
在 Saint Germain
Des Paris
的街頭
隔着兩杯咖啡
跟你對望

今晚
我們推開心窗
我要跟你
逐夢

我要用
我不靈光的法文
你不流暢的英文
猜測
中文和日文中間
相似而陌生的
字行

我們的頭髮
都一般直
眼睛
都一般黑
皮膚
都一般黄

我們都背棄
早已安排的道路
撲着滿臉
風塵
在這一塊旣不屬於你
又不屬於我的地方
放逐
同一般說不出的
心腸


April, 1985 法國巴黎

Memories

For Chinese translation go to:

http://stephaniechin88.blogspot.com/2007/01/memories-19903.html

I. (August 1989, New York - In memory of Tiananmen Square summer 1989 )

Where are you, where are you, where are you going, I am waiting
I am waiting for you.
Where are we, where are we, where are we going, are you waiting
are you waiting for me.
Are you there, are you there
are you there picking up flowers, flowers, flowers,
flowers, are you picking up
flower from the grave of Tiananmen Square.

Down with Marcos,
Down with the Shah,
Down with Apartheid,
Down with dictator,
Down, down, down, down with whosoever slaughters,
Despite mothers.

We are here, we are here, we are here lighting up fire.
Fire, fire, fire everywhere.
Do you see, do you see, do you see fire
light up Berlin, light up Poland, light up a cigarette: it's the
latest in Paris called "Gorbachev" in the hands of yuppies. Do you see
Do you see fire in everyone's soul.

It has been a nightmare, nightmare, nightmare.
Nightmare at Stony Brook day care center.
Three year old Xiao Tang from Beijing has a nightmare.
Four year old Rena from Shanghai has a nightmare.
Let's form a circle, listen.
Xiao Tang and Rena have something to tell us about China.
Four year old Joshua from Spain.
Five year old Laura Lea from Switzerland.
Four year old Sasha from Russia.
Five year old Juna from Korea.
Three year old Adrien from Jamaica.
Everywhere, everywhere, everywhere.
Everywhere, let's tell our children
everywhere:
"Policemen beating up people."
"They were bleeding, bleeding, bleeding, all bleeding,
they were students...."
"We watched it on N.B.C."
"My father said, let's march, let's march, let's march,
let's march with your mother, let's march with your brother,
let's march with your sister, let's march from Washington to
Harlem to Tiananmen Square to everywhere."

For Chinese translation go to:

http://stephaniechin88.blogspot.com/2007/01/2-memories-19903.html

II (In memories of our dreams - yesterday, today, tomorrow)

Where are you, where are you, where are you going, I am waiting
I am waiting for you.
Where are we, where are we, where are we going, are you waiting
are you waiting for me.
Are you there, are you there
Are you there painting pictures, pictures, pictures.
pictures, are you painting
pictures with the blood of the black, with the blood of the yellow,
with the blood of the brown, with the blood of the white,
with the blood of the red.

Go to Malcolm,
Go to Gandhi,
Go to King,
Go to Dalai Lama,
Go to Mother Teresa,
Go to Greenpeace,
Go, go, go, go to whosoever cares,
regardless of color.

It has been our dream, dream, dream.
Dream. A dream since our father's father's father
to our baby's baby's baby.
Ask our father's father's father about World War I.
Ask our father's father about World War II.
Ask our father about the fifties.
Ask our uncle about the sixties.
Ask our sister about the seventies.
Ask our brother about the eighties.
Ask George Jackson about the prison.
Ask the Vietnam Veterans about their lost friends and arms and legs.
Ask about the boat people where they have been going, still going.
Ask the seamstresses in the Lower East Side about the Triangle fire.
Ask the elderly by the Hudson River about their doom in nursing homes.
Ask our babies about their long wait for day care.
Ask the immigrant in the farms.
Ask the fish in the Love Canal.
Ask the whales in the North Sea.
Ask Allen Ginsberg in Naropa.
Ask, ask, ask, ask.
Ask whosoever in Kent State, in Berkeley, in the Middle East,
in El Salavador, in Tibet, in Africa,
in Northen Ireland, in everyplace,
Everyplace, everyplace, everyplace.
Ask the Russian, ask the Iranian, ask the Cambodian,
ask the Filipino, ask the Jew, ask the Chinese,
ask the American Indian.
Ask, ask, ask, ask.
Ask whosoever has a dream
Ask whosoever's dream is falling from the rising,
rising from the falling.

We are here, we are here, we are here watering flowers,
flowers, flowers, flowers everywhere.
Do you see, do you see, do you see flowers,
blossoms in Nicaragua, blossoms in Romania, blossoms in the
administration for equal opportunies, bloosoms in the
laboratories for the animal's rights. Do you see
do you see flowers blossom in so many colors everywhere
everywhere everywhere.
Solidarity to our flowers.

For Chinese translation go to:
http://stephaniechin88.blogspot.com/2007/01/4.html

III (In memory of our sisters)

Where are you, where are you, where are you going, I am waiting
I am waiting for you.
Where are we, where are we, where are we going, are you waiting
are you waiting for me.
Are you there, are you there
are you writing poems, poems, poems,
poems, are you writing
poems with the shadows in the snow.

Snow, snow,
snow. Isn't it cold on Champs Elysees, Yoko ?
Snow is falling, falling,
falling onto your nose.
Snow is falling, falling,
falling onto your lips.
Snow is falling, falling,
falling onto your memory of Kyoto.
Yoko, is it snow flake or white hair on your head ?
Tell me, tell me,
tell me where is your destiny ?
Has it been a long way ?
Has it been a long, long,
long way to go
from kneeling down to scrub a man's back in the hot tub with hate and love in Kyoto
to standing up in the wind to be accompanied by the bitterness in a cup of coffee at St. Germain
Des-Pris ?
Yoko, what are you going to do with your Ph.D. in philosophy lincensed by Sorbonne ?
Yoko, why are you selling your degree to Paris Vision to escort tours to the Louvre ?
How much is it, Yoko ?
How much do they pay you ?
As a second sex,
A third class citizen,
And a salary nobody wants.
How much do you pay, Yoko ?
A heart hovering in between Paris and Kyoto with no home.
A dream searching everywhere and ending up nowhere.
Yoko, my heart is soring.
Yoko, sayonara.
Oh, au revoir.
No, I don't want to leave you.
Yoko, let's hold hands
Through the poems
in the snow.

Snow, snow,
snow, isn't it cold, Irene ?
Isn't it cold in the Pocono Mountains, Irene ?
Snow is falling, falling,
falling onto your cup of hands.
Snow is falling, falling,
falling onto your memory of your cat at the ashram in California.
Irene, isn't it cold ? the lake is frozen.
From now on, can you dance
on the thin ice to whichever direction that you like ?
Tell me, tell me,
tell me where is your destiny ?
Has it been a long way
Has it been a long, long,
long way to go
from letting go of a broken heart
to bumping around on the highways from San Diego to Santa Fe to Tulsa to Boulder to the Pocono Mountains to writing a book called "Where to Go After a Divorce" ?
Irene, what are you going to do with your cat left at the ashram and the herbal garden in your dream ?
Irene, day after day, month after month, year after year
of bumping around, can you tell me where to shop for instant enlightenment in so many stores on the highways from coast to coast ?
Irene, isn't it cold ? Isn't it cold
where George said, "No more, you go yours and I go my own way." ?
Irene, are you letting go, are you letting go
of so much love and tears like a balloon in the air ?
How much does a marriage pay, Irene ?
How much does a marriage pay you ?
Legal prosititution,
Free slavery,
And the blame for your man's adultery.
Irene, how much do you pay ?
A cat sent to the holy ashram.
Cold eyes from your parents who warned you before hand.
Irene, my heart is hurting.
Irene, good luck on your journey.
Oh, I will miss you.
No, I don't want to leave you.
Irene, let's hold hands
through the poems
in the snow.

Snow, snow,
snow. Isn't it cold, Yen ?
Isn't it cold in Chinatown, Yen ?
Snow is falling, falling,
falling onto your eye lashes.
Snow is falling, falling,
falling onto your silence.
Snow is falling, falling,
falling onto your daughter's Afro hair on a Chinese face.
Yen, don't you think your daughter wants a bite of egg roll ?
Tell me, tell me,
tell me where is your destiny ?
Has it been a long way ?
Has it been a long, long,
long way to go
from New York's Chinatown where your parents called him "Nigger"
to Louisana where his parents called you "Chink"
and both of you got kicked out to nowhere ?
Isn't it cold ?
Isn't it cold in this world ?
Yen, what are you going to do with Jim and your little daughter ?
Yen, are you turning to Jesus ?
Yen, are you turning to social welfare ?
How much is love, Yen ?
How much does love pay you ?
Discrimination,
Racial prejudices,
And rejection by both families.
Yen, how much do you pay ?
Drop out of medical school,
Loss of roots and identity and dignity.
Yen, my heart is hurting.
Yen, send my love to your daughter.
Oh, tell her she is beautiful.
No, I don't want to leave you.
Yen, let's hold hands
through the poems
in the snow.

Snow, snow,
snow. Isn't it cold Magarita ?
Isn't it cold in Venice, Magarita ?
Snow is falling, falling,
falling onto your fingers.
Snow is falling, falling
falling onto your note book.
Snow is falling, falling,
falling onto your memory of the stain of blood.
Magarita, you are now in a quiet town. There is no more blood.
From now on, will you settle down by the ocean and walk on the beauty of the snow ?
Tell me, tell me,
tell me where is your destiny ?
Has it been a long way ?
Has it been a long, long,
long way to go
from picketing capitalism in fron of the White House as an Italian American idealist
to studying Chinese in a socialist utopia China to ten years later
to be haunted by the bloodshed at Tiananmen Square as a correspondent for the A.P. ?
Magarita, what are you going to do with your idealism and heart and tears ?
Magarita, are you now meditating in front of the Buddha on human sufferings and pondering on the Tibetan Book of the Dead ?
How much does your dream pay, Magarita ?
Disillusioned by Marx and Engels.
Deceived by socialist utopia advocates to serve the people.
Disoriented about life and death.
How much do you pay, Magarita ?
Over exhausted and drained of tears.
Traveling around the world and ending up in a small room in your parents' home in suburban Venice not knowing where to go tomorrow.
Magarita, my heart is hurting.
Magarita, sleep tight tonight.
Oh, tomorrow don't forget to call me to tell me your other dreams.
Magarita, let's hold hands
through the poems
in the snow.

Snow, snow,
Snow, so many shadows, shadows,
Shadows of our sister's sister's sister,
Shadows of our mother's mother's mother,
Shadows of daughter's daughter's daughter
in every corner under the stars.
Tonight, who's going to comfort you ?
Simone De Beauvoir,
Jesus,
Sivananda,
Plato,
Buddha,
Social worker,
or whosoever talks to your soul.
Come, let's hold hands,
and let's write our poems on the snow.
The road is long,
There are twists and turns, turns and twists.
But we are not lonely.
We have each other.


For Chinese translation, go to:

http://stephaniechin88.blogspot.com/2007/01/memories-19903_04.html

IV (In memory of our brothers)

Where are you, where are you, where are you going, I am waiting
I am waiting for you.
Where are we, where are we, where are we going, are you waiting
are you waiting for me.
Are you there, are you there
are you there dancing in the sky, sky, sky,
sky. Are you dancing on the
rainbow in the sky.

Sky, sky,
sky. I ask the sky, where are you ?
The sky stares at the clouds.
Clouds, clouds,
clouds. I ask the clouds, where are you ?
The clouds pass me by.
The tree we planted on Long Island has grown old.
It's shadow has fallen onto my shadow.
The tree and I love to dance with you.
Let's dance to somewhere:
Farther than the eyes can see,
Higher th an the sky can reach,
Larger than the heart can describe.
Johnny ! We found you in the sky
when you flew over our head on P.A. 747 in the mid summer of the days of youth.
Our blood was hot,
Our heart flew with you.
You brought home science, dance of freedom, and the hands to soothe your mother's wrinkles from missing a long absent son.
You said you will come back to see us on a rainbow built on the debris from years of battle in Cambodia.
But, you never did,
not even sending a leaf.
The tree is asking,
where could you be ?
They said you must have been killed - a common fate to Western educated intellectuals trying to re-build a ruined home.
The tree and I laugh !
How could it be ?
How could a soul vanish ?
My poems dances with you in the sky.

Sky, sky,
sky, I ask the sky, where are you ?
The sky leaves me with the wind.
Wind, wind,
wind, I ask the wind, where are you ?
The wind dances with a whistle.

The footprints we left on the mountains have become a path.
It stretches higher an higher leading to the sky.
The path and I love to dance with you.
Let's dance to somewhere:
Farther than the eyes can see,
Higher than the sky can reach,
Larger than the heart can describe.
Willy ! We found you in the mud -
Barefoot, shaved head, yellow robe,
standing alone, deep inside the moutanins.
We found no word,
Our heads dropped dead.
You turn around, serene in the lotus pond.
Willy,
Oh, Reverned White !
Where is our student leader at Berkely anti-war ?
Where is our union organizer agitates the rank and file ?
Rev. White, what would you tell the labor of AFL-CIO and ILGWU ?
You rose from the mud,
bow to the mountains and all sentient beings.
The war in your heart has long been dead.
Is it another life, another time, another world ?
You vanished like a cloud in the moutains.
We must look for you in the sky.
Where are you ?
My poems dances with you in the sky.

Sky, sky,
sky, I ask the sky, where are you ?
The sky cares for the night.
Night, night,
night. I ask the night, where are you ?
The night is in love with the stars.
The stars we counted have become a lamp.
It shines particularly bright during the night.
The lamp and I love to dance with you.
Let's dance to somewhere:
Farther than the eyes can see,
Higher than the sky can reach,
Larger than the heart can describe.
Dan ! We read your poems in the Village Voice -
You posted your life on the Deomcratic Wall !
The Poem was burnt in the fire facing the tanks. It's translation has flown over the ocean.
It takes no underground tunnel,
No asylum,
No exile.
It is open in the air
widely read.
But, where are you ?
Many of your brothers and sisters are now in Chicago, In New York, In Paris, In Hong Kong, in wherever the stars glows.
We see Chai Ling, Wuer Kaixi.
But, where are you ?
They said you must be sharing the pain with more brothers and sisters in the old dark prison in Beijing.
I look at the stars,
And write under the lamp.
No matter where you are,
My poems dances with you in the sky.

Sky, sky,
sky, I ask the sky, where are you ?
The sky hums with the ocean.
Ocean, Ocean,
ocean, I ask the ocean, where are you ?
The ocean accompanies the seagulls.
The ocean, the seagulls, and the universe have formed an orchestra.
Their melody takes me to another world.
The orchestra and me love to dance with you.
Let's dance to somewhere:
Farther than the eyes can see,
Higher than the sky can reach,
Larger than the heart can describe.
Professor Lim ! We found you in the "Book of the World's Famous People" in the Great British Museum.
But, you said your spot light was off 30 yers ago when you took your violin played in front of the Queen in Holland to go to China to serve the people as a teacher.
But, how could you do that, when you spoke six Eurpoean languages but not a single Chinese word ?
You said, it is O.K. music language is universal.
You said, it is also O.K. to step down from the glamour of the stage.
But, is it O.K. to be accused of petty bourgeoisie romanticism during Cultural Revolution and asked to be re-educated through labor ?
Is it also O.K. to play the broom in the kitchens and the bathrooms
and to teach Tchaikovsky and Mozart to the cows and pigs ?
You tried to escape
to heaven.
Many succeeded by suicide.
But you escaped to Hong Kong with twelve dollars in your hands.
Now, Hong Kong is under the shadow of communist take over in 1997.
Where are you going to go ?
You have been famous in France, in Germany, in Russia, in Italy, and in England.
But now who 's going to take you when a young genius has grown into an exhausted old man ?
I went to the record store to look for you.
The man said, "Oh ! The old generation."
I said, "Berstein's generation."
The man laughed.
The ocean, the seagulls, and the orchestra are waiting for you.
Where are you ?
My poems dances with you in the sky.

Sky, sky,
sky, so many dances, dances,
dances on the rainbow in the sky. I see the
dances of my brother's brother's brother,
dances of my father's father's father,
dances of my childern's children's children,
following the melody of their souls
fading in and fading out like a rainbow.
Today, where can we look for you ?
By the ocean,
Inside the mountains,
Within a poem,
Over the debris,
Under the bloodshed,
In another life, another time, another world,
or wherever the heart goes.
Come, let's dance together
with the coming and going of rainbow
under so many colors and emptiness, emptiness and so many colors,
But let's dance
on a rainbow
never vanish from our souls.


August, 1989 Stony Brook, New York

More Memories:

LITTLE CONVERSATION
( A poem copied from the wall of Tiananmen Square in the summer of 89' by an unknown author)

Child: Momma, momma, why ar all these little aunts and uncles not eating ?
Mother: Because they are thinking of beautiful gift.
Child: What gift ?
Mother: Freedom.
Child: Who is going to give them this gift ?
Mother: They themselves.

Child: Moma, moma, why are so many people on the square ?
Mother: Because it is a festival day.
Child: What kind of festival day ?
Mother: A day for lighting fires.
Child: Where are the fires ?
Mother: In everyone's soul.

Child: Momma, Momma, who are sitting in the ambulances ?
Mother: Heros.
Child: Why are heros lying down ?
Mother: So that the children standing behind can see.
Child: Like me ?
Mother: Yes.
Child: See what ?
Mother: A seven-colored bouquet of flowers.