MID-TANG HISTORY

Midnight, suddenly more snow

on snow-blue ground. To eat,

some exchange dead babies.

Last year to the day, I was here

composing a cheery farewell verse

for an officer who’d die going home.

On the riverbank, the rebel army

passing with torches,

singing some barbaric tune.

Let them; I can’t make out a word.

Today, my white shift tattered,

I’m more like a flower.