by Mingrui
One night,
he lit a cigarette called Möbius.
The flickering flame, amidst swirling smoke,
seemed like shadows cast from his soul onto the earth.
The outline of Zanzibar faintly emerged,
a fleeting glimpse, then vanished—
the fiery red, a once dazzling sight.
Now,
language fails, and unity rings hollow.
The world of globalism
has become a nightmare within:
not loneliness, but solitude in the crowd,
not having nothing, but toiling in vain.
Thus he wonders: if in the pure white of Helsinki,
would people feel better?
But as the sun rises, his final wish
is to be buried
in the indifferent Third World.