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Three Moons Make a Season




I used to stand before lantern puzzles. 


Now my window is too low for the moon, 

my window with the sound of trains.


Cinnamon grove pressed on mooncakes


and pomelo cut in twelve

are for people in the yellow space.


In my stomach 

migrant workers hammer and saw;


the houses they build remain empty.




Read more poems by Ye Chun:

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