Spring never lasts long, even in a seasonless
place. After a few decades, the locals
stop visiting, and soon
it’s all foreigners who pose
in front of my altar, inebriated.
None of them offer anything.
I’ve seen my shores devastated, swallowed
by the angry gills of typhoons.
I’ve seen my waters froth with trash.
Foreigners piss into my ocean
narrowly missing the sharks,
and sometimes on my vengeful days
I wish a shark would bite them,
but mostly, I want quiet.
I want this small mercy.
I want to dive into the Andaman
but this time, swim with the damselfish.
This time, the electric eels would protect me.
Above us, the karst blesses us with silence.
For centuries their skins have eroded.
For lifetimes they’ve listened to my sorrows.