AN OLD MAN’S DEATH

His toenails

sharp and yellow

like flowers of the pagoda tree, withered

at the bottom of the wall.

His belly

so swollen

like the big iron pan in the dining hall

turned over.

Many wept

for the sharp and yellow toenails,

for the swollen flesh,

many wept.

Like ghosts,

a few flies

rest on his eyelids.

Driven off, they fly back.