Hong Kong
The West is not dead–
it lives in the Chinese
flight attendant who says,
with a firm voice of her own:
“Don’t touch me–please,
Don’t touch me.”
The West is not a place–
it’s a poem written on history.
Its truths seep past the censors,
sneak through the gateway:
Hong Kong, the Trojan horse.
As for Tiananmen–
Fuck you Commies!
I will not self-censor.
The West will not die, I say–
even as Evening’s Empire turns
to dust; the sun sets in the west
and rises in the east: America!
The dream will return, great again–
but not by Trump, not by bleeding hearts.
The Chinese will complete the project.
In the Chinese Dream, I see America:
hard-work, patriotism, power, pride–
this is American. This is Chinese.
And one day, the Chinese may yet
be individuals; Hong Kong melting wok,
East-West wo-men–a billion creators.
That may not be Mr Xi’s Chinese Dream
but history dances to rhythm and rhyme,
and Nietzsche will not be negated.
The Leviathan is a shell only:
when the people outgrow it,
it will crack from within.
Now: kill the sprawling Dragon!
Now kill your demented mother!
Now kill your Gods–yes, even Love.
That is the price of freedom.
That is the curse of history.
That is the tragedy: the victory
–Anonymous, August 2018
Anonymous wrote this during a period of poverty and depression after studies in Philosophy. They felt intense nationalism and sensitivity to the US-China trade war, because it affected them financially. They remain anonymous, because incorporeal ideas cannot be thrown in prison when the CPC rules the world.