Oh, the burden of being a friend

to the strong

 

They ask only what we can give

knowing it will take

all that we have

 

And they always know

what they ask

so never fail to forgive

when we fail

before the end

 

Oh, the burden of being friend

to the strong

 

To know and not understand

the brilliance

we touch and yet do not

 

To see pity and true sorrow

in their eyes

when they see and know

how little we can do

 

To stand before a magic mirror

seeing ourselves clearly held

bound at the threshold

while beyond our reach

go the strong ones

striding into a world of possibilities

 

Yes, they know what little we can give

when ideals become reality

but they know, too, the greatness

of our most precious gift:

 

We will not refuse the burden,

the burden of loving the strong.

The river delta so thick with silt

It sits like a swipe of peanut butter

Dotted with sampans and junks

Unmoving, even near harbor’s sea edge.

 

Remnants of a Portuguese past,

Still linger in shaded patio,

Whisper from delicate iron tracery,

Rust with silent bells in a church steeple.

 

A small arch offers little shade

To guards poised to stop errant steps,

Beside the foot path to China’s gate:

Sun-bleached, hard-packed

Bleak—up to and beyond—

Through distant green and empty hills

Which would otherwise welcome.

 

Two nationals returning

Approach the gate with eyes down

Walk forward in a backward slow gait

Carefully placing steps

As if to leave no trace of their passage.

 

Elsewhere, away up hill

Past mahjong gaming rooms,

A temple squats beside the road.

Within its tepid coolness,

Carved images of monks,

Fragrance of incense, flowers

Both fresh and dying,

A few poignant photographs.

 

Anchored at the foot of the hill,

In glitter and wealth, the casino boat—

Offering free passage home

For any with emptied pockets.

 

In the heavy velvet air

Summer-muffled,

Laughter seems out of place

On this hot afternoon.