胡同(Hútòng)

Whilst wailing moans of èrhú’s final call,
each stone’s defeated, shifting how we see
the hútòng. It’s a dust-ghost, grey and small.
Decayed, near lost, once drenched and drunk with chi.
In Beijing’s belly furnace, now erased,
the kinship bonds are weakened, shattered, slain.
What costs are paid for souls aggrieved, displaced?
They stand here ravaged, naked, charged with pain.
But for the future, a collective cry
as soft and feathered smoky flames still churn.
New steel gods flourish, reaching for the sky,
though wondrous heights can’t shield the dragon’s burn.
Old blood transforms, resilient from the past,
the mourned and fractured hearth may rise at last.