Ling Guang Collection-9-《White Horse》

When stepping out with dew underfoot, the sky was still dark. The gray mist clung to the body like a cloak that would never dry. The roadside broom flowers drooped their heads, their damp tendrils brushing against boot tops, leaving trails of water.

Some things are forgotten as you walk, blown away by the wind, leaving only fragments lodged in memory. Yet the shadow cast by the cliff, forged bronze by the setting sun, juts stubbornly against the rock face.

Still, I cling to that withered vine dangling over the edge. Everyone says I’m obsessed—three silver coins already shattered by misfortune, yet I squat where the larks flew, counting each fallen feather.

If you see me, pin a wild rose to your lapel. The kind that blooms fiercest among nettles, thorns sharp with defiance. Don’t let the light in your eyes be doused by night dew. In this world, stories are written in ledgers, paler than faded ink.

Has anyone untied the white horse? The silver reins dig into its mane, leaving glistening welts. If you can’t help, let the beast keep running. What it shakes off isn’t sweat but shards of the frozen Milky Way. The trampled roses sink into the earth, blooming instead into something that never withers.

All I wanted was something sweet, yet I nearly lost my life on the guillotine. The taste of rust still clings to my tongue. Don’t curse rainbows as lies after two falls—I insist there’s unopened light buried under thorns.

They say faith is a moth-eaten fairy tale, but I’ll ram my head against steel fortresses. How many minds have wolves stolen under moonlight? Only I’d stake my heartbeat on a kiss that doesn’t exist.

If you pass the wasteland, gather some madness to keep. Raise it as a digital pet in your phone, or let a comet-chasing weed sprout from the cracks in your concrete balcony.

Even when quicksand reaches your throat, that stubbornness will still glow in the dark. Like fireflies, dangling unyielding light. If fairy tales don’t lie, the apocalypse will bring a pearl-white horse. Look up—silver mane might be flashing through the clouds.

I was lost too long, so long even migratory birds stopped asking. The confession letter from my father? Crumpled unread. In this world, who dares water roses with blood? I do. Thorns pierce my palm, but I won’t let go. Blood beads trail down my arm, brighter than dew.

Now the white horse carries an empty saddle, crushing dusk after dusk. Pen in hand, I hesitate—hero’s chronicle or madman’s ledger? If you hear fading bells in the wind, don’t doubt it. You’re on the road called love.

I am the poet who rides a white horse to create worlds.