There’re countless answers, a hospital where people are born and where most die of illness, the ocean where currants bring things in with waves that sweep and riptides that return or perhaps the most popular answers by far, a graveyard, a cemetery. Take your pick, but it was where I visited not too far ago!
Find the place that was built up a mountain for the death can travel up easier. Find the place where the grim reaper lies under a willow tree enjoying a spot of tea. Was that the smoke from the reaper’s cigars or burnt offerings for the once alive?
Listen out to the wind, where it might just be the prayers of the dead, filled with their longings for their loved ones. The dead will mourn everyone they’ve once meet; the living will mourn the dead alone. Who would feel the most anguish?
What happens when no one remembers? A resting place that’s crushed and removed. The death of what should be unbreakable tombs. Perhaps most memorable of all, a place where no one will listen to their prayers in the wind. They would’ve moved on, for the better or for the worst. Although for some they are reunited, crossing paths in both life and death.
Surrounded by kin, leaning on one another’s shoulders, they are ready to welcome faces both new and old.
I love the contrasting dark reds of blood—
I love the contrasting dark reds of blood—
like wine, it’s delicate and exquisite,
flowing down one’s throat like a song.
It comes from everyone.
Everyone bleeds,
revealing what they hide inside.
And that’s the beauty of red.
It sings like rubies
Yet cries like pain
Red can drip
Red can stain
Blood can drip
Blood can stain
Something everyone fears when they see on the outside
Yet they all hide it inside
Somehow, yet somehow
Red can be the joyous red of love
Lift your chin, stand up high
That thread of red?
Can be your end or your beginning
Or perhaps you might find something worth hiding
Don’t worry, dear
Theres always something to fear
Find the place that was built up a mountain for the death can travel up easier. Find the place where the grim reaper lies under a willow tree enjoying a spot of tea. Was that the smoke from the reaper’s cigars or burnt offerings for the once alive?
Listen out to the wind, where it might just be the prayers of the dead, filled with their longings for their loved ones. The dead will mourn everyone they’ve once meet; the living will mourn the dead alone. Who would feel the most anguish?
What happens when no one remembers? A resting place that’s crushed and removed. The death of what should be unbreakable tombs. Perhaps most memorable of all, a place where no one will listen to their prayers in the wind. They would’ve moved on, for the better or for the worst. Although for some they are reunited, crossing paths in both life and death.
Surrounded by kin, leaning on one another’s shoulders, they are ready to welcome faces both new and old.
I love the contrasting dark reds of blood—
I love the contrasting dark reds of blood—
like wine, it’s delicate and exquisite,
flowing down one’s throat like a song.
It comes from everyone.
Everyone bleeds,
revealing what they hide inside.
And that’s the beauty of red.
It sings like rubies
Yet cries like pain
Red can drip
Red can stain
Blood can drip
Blood can stain
Something everyone fears when they see on the outside
Yet they all hide it inside
Somehow, yet somehow
Red can be the joyous red of love
Lift your chin, stand up high
That thread of red?
Can be your end or your beginning
Or perhaps you might find something worth hiding
Don’t worry, dear
Theres always something to fear
Bionote
Emily Wang (王墨), born in Victoria, Australia in 2012, is a writer who pokes holes in everyday ideas that seem solid. Her biggest inspiration for writing is trying to understand meaning—not in the childish way where people simply ask why over and over again, but by questioning the way things are and defying set rules. she thinks of writing not as something to be shown, but as something personal—then show it off anyway because she is proud of it. Currently, she is attending East Doncaster secondary college in year 8. Her favourite subject is Drama production— it’s just so inspiring to watch stories take form in front of her. She finds her work heavily influenced by the Japanese author Dazai Osamu, his work No Longer Human offers her a new and eye-opening perspective that others tend to shy away from.
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