BEIJING
Beijing, once the city of Ming,
Wooden roofs in layer-steps,
big hats,
‘Do you need a guide?’
in stranger’s English,
Green, yellow and red,
the phoenix and dragon are never dead,
Walking in ancient footsteps,
shadows and lights,
in now an open city,
Once Forbidden for many,
but open to others,
to the One and his followers.
In The Garden of Beijing,
around a damp lake,
beast-boats carry the crowd,
Buddha is worshipped in the centre,
on the top,
as different emperors were,
centuries before.
Beijing, the city of Mao,
on The Square,
where umbrellas gather together,
once covered with blood,
now before the picture of Him,
Face on the money,
where defending buildings are left,
and cameras give day-light,
Beijing, where a piece of The Wall,
like a snake,
through the mountains,
once build to defend,
now ready to be defeated,
by all admirers from everywhere,
meditating in the towers,
shelters for the burning sun,
once to look out for enemies,
now to look at trees and ancient stones
Beijing, once the city of bicycles,
now city of many people,
cars and shops,
the city of millions of lights
TERRACOTT-ARMY (Xian, China)
Soldiers,
never marched,
never fought,
never in power of using their weapons,
never able to move,
captured in clay,
paralysed,
They were attacked,
during the War of Fire,
and the War of Sand,
untill 2200 years later,
they were found,
and many were renewed,
to stand once more,
fierce and as One,
Passing on knowledge of Art,
from them to us,
Different faces,
but still as One,
looking with the same eyes,
fearless and proud,
human and inhuman,
ancient and new,
an army as a Piece of Art.
YICHANG (Yichang, up to the three Gorges)
The three Gorges contains many stories,
of the crew-members and the captain,
of the demons that never sleep,
and lovers that chose eternity or not,
of Fengdu,
the capital of the underworld,
of the history of the Yangtse,
when the dam was build,
when everything got hot,
and foggy,
of the coffins in the rocks,
of the songs of the boatmen about lovers,
weeping,
The Gorges is a place where people of all countries meet,
where monkeys and goats run around,
where Buddha is worshipped,
and lovers have to prove their love,
where small boats with unknown boatmen,
master the river,
like carried on the wind,
fearless,
lighted by the sun,
and as the evening appears,
warm blue and green are the ruling colours,
as one tells the story of the White Emperor,
who saw a dragon above the lake,
passing the view of the famous yian,
the river is a big serpent,
in the hat-shaped mountains,
orange trees on hilly rocks,
waiting for picking,
and ancient stares lead to nowhere
or to other magical stories
LIJANG RIVER: From Guilin up to Yanshuo
Starting in Guilin,
city of Ostmansus trees,
On the river Li,
name of millions of people,
river of millions of visitors,
of millions of years,
of a million views,
green young mountains,
like turtle shells,
green bushy wizard- and bowlerhats,
green camel-backs,
after which others again pop up,
round big leaf-shaped trees,
through which palm-leaves break through,
the lady with the baby,
is crying for her man forever,
in the rocks,
a cave as a crown,
a rock as a horse,
pine-trees on the mountains,
looking for the sun,
in groups they stay together,
small boats pass the water every day,
little stars fall on the water,
the waves carry them away,
drops dripping, pouring from our faces,
while peering to the giant hats,
full of greenery,
the palms waving with their big sleeves,
the animals eating calmly besides the water,
humans like fish,
the view of the famous yian of twenty,
of the ancient mountains,
with their misty surroundings
THE MOON WATER CAVE
Bicycle up, through the rice fields,
full of workers with triangle hats,
with cows and bare hands,
getting food for everyone,
houses of clay with old women,
leaning, sleeping,
the dogs lost on stony, rocky paths,
Bicycle up, along the Li River,
where bamboos take people to another shore,
bicycle up, along melon and yellow cherrie-trees,
bicycle up to the moon River Cave,
where shapes and shades give brown-red-ocre,
and illusions and stories for tellers,
and at the top a moon and a girl,
that wants to fly,
to the dark moon,
Bicycle up to the Moonhill,
where at the feet you see a big moon-hole,
through which dampy mountains,
of more stories and dreams,
in shapes of hats,
and turtles,
the stares up in snake-movements,
lead to the moon,
through which all ancient mountains shine,
Bicycle down, and down the moonhill,
along the water-buffaloes,
the dogs, the old women, the cherries,
the rice-fields, the old houses of clay,
and all the way down into town,
happy, satisfied and with a sun-tan,
dreaming about the next bicycle-ride
HONG KONG
Like pillars out of the ground,
gigantic houses for hundreds of people,
amidst natural surroundings,
where boats take you around,
to floating restaurants
and coasts of baby-islands,
every building has its own look,
and still looks the same,
from a peak on one island,
like big rectangular boxes,
grown out of the ground,
by night with thousands of lights,
on another island,
at the top,
a big Buddha looks peaceful at everyone,
while the ladies dance and guide her,
with flower-like fingers,
and from her peak,
you can see Hong Kong’s islands,
surrounded by green and blue mist and water,
a monastery nearby,
where candles of incense burn,
and blow smoke,
always per three,
all remains of families,
friends,
dreamers,
lovers gone by,
like in Buddha’s little spot,
where money- and love-Buddha,
have been worshipped and touched,
for some just statues,
to others art,
and for some like wishes,
to others truth,
In the city,
fake watches and bags are the gods,
as are addictive products by night.
Clouds were everywhere,
on that day,
blocking the sun
eclipse, on the 23th July 2009,
as I slept and didn’t see,
for my head was full of clouds,
as I had not seen,
what many should have seen,
as they wanted to see,
in darkness,
to the light again,
from morning till noon
A CHINESE DREAM OF LOVE
As you are my dragon boy,
I’ll fly around you as a phoenix,
as you spit your fire,
move your tail,
You and I fly around together
the Yangtse and Li-River,
transform into yellow,
emperor and emperess,
and when as a dragon you sleep,
as a phoenix I sometimes die,
but birth comes each time,
from ashes laid down,
and you are there,
always,
waiting to be heard,
and seen
MIRA BORGHS
Is a Flemish poet, painter, photographer, actress. These are her first poems to be published in English
THE GREEN DOOR 
Still as beautiful as ever