PROF. DAVID SHAPIRO ; JOHN WINSLOW 11.11
I am a man of fortune
I am the red bird
in Emperor’s bedroom
riding chariots with a smile
chosen, in the crowd.
I am the man of fortune,
Riding chariots with a grin,
Chosen, in the crowd, I arrive.
I am the red bird in Emperor’s cage
At 4 A.M.
I am the St. George of Chin
throwing dirt and buckets of water
when you arrive.
I am your seven year-old bamboo
keeping the old time young, watching.
Your name is written on my dress.
He is a man of Fortune,
smiling from the passing chariot.
Crowned he chose to arrive.
He’s the red bird pleasing
the Emperor’s morning ears.
You are a man of fortune,
spreading your red wings
over the Emperor’s ears.
Laughing, you mount your chariot.
You are the red bird of fortune
arriving from dust,
dusting off your red coat
hanging inside your cage.
You arrive alone
seven times over
to quelch the thirst
of dirty morsels.
He’s the slayer
of the flaming red dragon, arriving
and we pass buckets of water.
Some throw dirt.
He measures seven years
Of the old bamboo,
Keeping it young.
We learn the name
of our village
from the front of his dress.
He makes us smile,
looking around at the hills.
Each night he lays his head
on the belly of his wife.
And when he’s sleeping,
she sweeps the dragon scales
from the bedroom mats.