Beijing, 1984

Don’t cry for me. The Tree of Life
is full of birds. When I was old
in winter, lonely as a knife,
and when my heart was blue and cold,
I fell in love. Don’t cry for me.
The Tree of Life is lilac
and smells of May and poverty,
poor as an orchard of bamboo.
I fell in love when I was young
and now I’m crazy once again,
in jail with jasmine on my tongue
and in my heart a cyclamen.
Don’t cry for me. I’m young again
and every spring is cyclamen.