• Heung Aiden


The letter comes from a far country on an early April evening, when  the moon is full and stars run quietly.

The good earth, bored with the fecund  promise of spring, works  on the fetid  memory of the lost.

I stand and watch, in the mute anticipation  of the more theatrical,  something of Homeric proportions; nothing happens tonight,  silence has sealed the wet lips of wandering poets.

*published on the September Issue of The Bangalore Review


 © 2019 by Aiden Heung