Excerpts from W. Wayne Lin's New Book

A Stream Keeps Running

 

A  Stream Keeps Running

(After 18 Months, 7 Emergency Room Trips, 38 Doctors & 23 Minutes Fainted)
 


A stream keeps running.

Around the clock,
sculpts the valley and rock,
passes the backyard children play.
The innocence of youth never fades.
The stream, the creek, the brook,
the rivulet,
hunts for the river never found.
The sea, the ocean is far away.

Loses in the forest, the end is the nearest.
Obstructs by gorge,
merges and emerges,
drip by drip,
down the cliff,
falls into a fall.

 

A stream keeps running.
 

Through cleft, swale and gully,
clear bubbles on the pebbles,
bobs up babble yet to be cleared.

A stream keeps running.

On a trusted path,
derails by the wrong beat.
Skips, lags, omits.
Out of sync,
Sinks, sinks, sinks.
In the Autumn chill,
shiver is the normal thrill.
On a path that is lost,
the road left,
difference will never be made.
Dry in the summer heat,
frozen in the winter blizzard,
still in the quick sand,
awaits the missing beat.

 

A stream keeps running

 

Sunrise sunset remains bright.
Shines with the same light,
identical silence in the night.

A stream keeps running.

 

 

 

 

A Never Ending Battle We Fight


The hurricane invades the town
to wreck the houses,
uproot the trees.
Debris is all over the ground.
The village is torn apart
the folks are back to check their homes.
The breakage is piling and piling up.
Underneath the laden jumbles,
the wounded grass is about the only thing
that is still alive.
A tiny blade is bent and sticking out
its neck to wave to the crowd.

 

The village is torn apart
the breakage is all over the ground.
A tiny blade is bent and sticking out
its neck to wave to the crowd.

Not the agony of defeat,
nor crash in the ditch,
Not the curse of catastrophe,
nor setback or glitch,
Not the heartbreak that's out of proportion,
nor sleepless nights

can clog the breeze to whisper
and bring us a hint
of uplifting clues.

 

The village is torn apart
the breakage is all over the ground.
A tiny blade is bent and sticking out
its neck to wave to the crowd.

Not the affliction in the depth of the heart,
nor the destruction can’t be replaced,
not the debacle that is horrible,
nor blast of endless ravages,
not the collapse to breakdown
nor the insult from failure

can thwart us
looking at the stars
shining in the sky.

 

The village is torn apart
the breakage is all over the ground.
A tiny blade is bent and sticking out
its neck to wave to the crowd.

Not the blight reduces us to ashes,
nor tragedy of the memory,
Not the ordeal of the burnt-out body,
nor pathos of wounded souls,
Not the suffering of the gravest illness,
nor the disaster of calamity

can cease the moon’s gleaming,
and rule us out to dream
the smallest dream.

 

The village is torn apart
the breakage is all over the ground.
A tiny blade is bent and sticking out
its neck to wave to the crowd.

Not the anguish of the sorest injury,
nor the despair in the distracted path,
Not the misfortune blankets every choice,
nor the adversity of all encounters,
Not the misery of being sidelined,
nor out-break and lie

can block the sun to shine and wind to blow
and carry us from the darkest night
to the next glow.