A Road to a Thousand Years

Tales from Chinese history:

01. Under the Blood Red Flag
02. The Translator’s Burden
03. The Little Red Book
04. The Wind of Manchurian
05. It’s Too Far Away
06. The Hongweibing’s Lament
07. The Scent of Jasmine
08. The Emperor Is Dead
09. Her Voice
10. The Language of Snow
11. A Poison Seed
12. Red Hearts

Under the Blood Red Flag

In New China, when the Red storm swirled,
And flags of Mao reshaped the world,
A new dawn rose in a gray schoolyard,
Where hearts were locked, and lives were hard.

She came, a teacher, young and bright,
Her presence soft, her smile alight.
She taught the tongue of the Soviet land,
A language strange, but her command –
A melody, smooth, like a river’s bend,
And one boy’s heart began to rend.

He watched her move, her voice, her grace,
The glow of youth upon her face.
His sixteen years, naïve, untried,
Were drawn to her like the evening tide.
She saw his gaze, and where others would flee,
She smiled, she lingered – light, carefree.

Her words, though few, were sweet and warm,
A gentle tease, a fleeting storm.
She’d brush his shoulder, let laughter ring,
And to his dreams, new wings would spring.
But behind her charm, behind her stare,
Loomed shadows thick, a hidden affair.

(She walks in, poised, a vision, young and bright,
A last beacon in the ideological night)

For when the sun sank low each night,
And shadows stretched to swallow light,
She left the school, her duties called,
To translate whispers in factory halls.

The plant is building, a Soviet plan,
Where steel and smoke met the will of man.
And she, the bridge between two lands,
Held secrets deep within her hands.

(She walks in, poised, a vision, young and bright,
A last beacon in the ideological night)

The boy, enraptured, could not see,
The weight she bore, her duality.
For in her smile, both truth and lies,
A world concealed behind her eyes.
Did she love him? Or was it a game,
A fleeting flame, a nameless name?

She sees his yearning, playful, she replies,
A touch of laughter in her amber eyes.
A flirtation, light as summer’s gentle breeze,
A secret language spoken through the trees
Of youthful longing, blossoming so fast,
A forbidden bloom, a shadow that is cast.

(She walks in, poised, a vision, young and bright,
A last beacon in the ideological night)

But in that school, in that brief time,
Where youth and love unraveled rhyme,
A boy once dreamed, a woman played,
And history marched through what they made.

For love is fleeting, and shadows stay,
And secrets linger past their day.
In Communist China, ‘neath skies of gray,
A boy loves a teacher who’s slipping away.

(She walks in, poised, a vision, young and bright,
A last beacon in the ideological night)

The red flag waves, a symbol strong and high,
And love and duty, beneath its banner lie.
In China’s heart, a story takes its hold,
Of youthful passions, and a truth untold.

The Translator’s Burden

(In the dim-lit room where languages meet,
She treads a path both fraught and discreet)

Day by day, her voice bridges two lands,
Shaping intent with her measured hands.
Her words a shield, her tongue a blade,
In the dance of diplomacy, trust is made.

The Soviet attaché, stern and cold,
Speaks of politics, secrets untold.
Yet in his gaze, a fire burns,
A want, a need, that she must spurn.

His whispers come like poisoned wine,
“I love you, I need you, say you’ll be mine.”
She lowers her eyes, not daring to speak,
For refusal is peril, and defiance is weak.

She wears her silence like a second skin,
Enduring the weight of his lecherous sin.
(lecherous sin)

Each advance she endures is a toll she pays,
A cost to survive these treacherous days.
Her job is her anchor, her family her light,
Her soul a battlefield every night.

Yet in her heart, rebellion hums —
A quiet storm that never succumbs.
For though he may claim her body, her grace,
He will never conquer her inner space.

She dreams of a day when her voice is her own,
When power is balanced, and seeds are sown.
(seeds are sown)

The classroom waits with eager eyes,
Her students see no trace of lies.
She teaches them words, both kind and wise,
While her soul weaves truths in thin disguise.

In her heart, a silent prayer grows:
For strength, for peace, for the winds to blow —
To carry her far from this tangled game,
To a life unmarked by guilt or shame.

But until that day, she’ll tread this line,
Translator, teacher, her roles entwined.
(roles entwined)

(For love of family, she’ll endure the cost,
Even as pieces of herself are lost)
(endure the cost)
(herself are lost)

The Little Red Book

In the shadow of the red flag’s flare,
A boy once quiet, now stands with a glare,
His heart, young and tender, begins to divide —
Between love and the cause, where does he hide?

The schoolyard echoes with chants of the brave,
“Down with the old, let the new world save!”
He once sat in silence, books by his side,
But now he’s a Hongweibing, filled with pride.

His teachers tremble beneath his gaze,
Their words, once wisdom, now branded as haze.
He seeks out betrayal in lessons and lines,
Suspicion grows deep, like roots that entwine.

Yet there’s a face that softens his rage —
A beautiful teacher, calm, like a sage.
Her voice, a melody, foreign yet kind,
It stirs something deep, confusing his mind.

She speaks of Russia, of winters and snow,
Of lands far away where the cold winds blow.
Her eyes, like the river’s slow-moving stream,
Haunt him by day and invade every dream.

“Mao’s words burn bright within my heart,
A fire that drives me to do my part.
As a Hongweibin, I must be bold,
Rooting out those
Who would thwart the new world”.

Could he betray the Party, the Chairman’s call,
For a love that threatened to consume him, whole?
The Little Red Book trembled in his grip,
As love and revolution clashed on his lip.

But the revolution demands all his soul —
To purge every enemy, make the impure whole.
“Father, confess! Were you ever astray?
Mother, your silence — what does it say?”

“Mao’s words burn bright within my heart,
A fire that drives me to do my part.
As a Hongweibing, I must be bold,
Rooting out those
Who would thwart the new world”.

Could he betray the Party, the Chairman’s call,
For a love that threatened to consume him, whole?
The Little Red Book trembled in his grip,
As love and revolution clashed on his lip.

The Cultural Revolution’s relentless tide,
Swept him along, with nowhere to hide.

The Wind of Manchurian

The Manchurian wind, a bitter, biting sting,
Whipped at the attaché’s hurried, final fling.
His bags were packed, the orders clipped and terse,
A silent shame, a diplomatic curse.
For weeks, he’d walked the halls of power here,
A Soviet shadow, whispering in the ear
Of comrades lost in Mao’s tumultuous sway,
But now the dragon breathed and bade him stray.

Beside him stood his loyal hand,
A translator bound by quiet command.
Her voice, once calm, now trembled low,
For her fate was tied to what they’d know.

For years she spoke his Russian tongue,
Each word a thread in the web they’d spun.
But now, that web was torn and frayed,
And she feared the price of trust betrayed.

He’d called her “comrade”, with a knowing glance,
A shared complicity, a hurried, secret dance.
He’d trusted her, or so it had appeared,
While secrets bloomed, and trust became a feared
And fragile thing, like ice upon a lake,
That cracks and shatters for a careless take.
Now he was gone, a phantom in the breeze,
Leaving her stranded in unease.

Would Beijing’s eyes see her as true,
Or deem her loyal to enemies new?
Her hands shook as she packed his case,
A mask of dread upon her face.

Expelled from China, his mission not done,
Yet her own had only just begun.
“In war, we serve, in peace, we fall.
But fear will break you most of all.”

Why?

Those midwives to history put on their bloody robes
The word is that hunted one is out there on his own
And you’re alone for maybe the last time
And your breathe for a long time
Then you howl like a wolf in a trap
And you aren’t look behind
You’re alone
(you’re alone)

Why?

For in the silence, in the void,
Where nations clash and lives are toyed,
She knew too well her fragile state —
A pawn in games of love and hate.
(a pawn in games)
(of love and hate)

Why?

It’s Too Far Away

(it’s too far away)

The sunset fades on the border’s line,
A dying ember, a muted sign.
The train knocks hard, its rhythm stark,
Carrying him through the falling dark.
Behind, the land where shadows played,
Where he toiled, where secrets stayed.

She’s left in the past – whose gaze like silk,
A voice as soft as morning’s milk.
His translator – words like a gentle stream,
Tenderness woven through every dream.
Her voice, now distant, fades away,
As ghost of warmth in the cold of day.

The wagon sways; the windows black,
A life ahead, nobody turning back.
Darkness wraps the pane, a velvet shroud,
Reflecting back the turmoil in his soul.
Somewhere, the children wait and wife’s cold,
And winter shapes the land, a chilling whole.

Damansky Island – Zhenbao Dao,
A war-torn world with Comrade Mao.

The border shifts, the moments fray,
And passion dissolves in the ash of day.

No letter will come, no trace to find,
Her shadow lost to the march of time.
You can’t shout, though lungs might burn,
No echo answers, no steps return.
But she remained, a ghost within his head,
No letter now can mend the words unsaid.

Damansky Island – Zhenbao Dao,
A war-torn world with Comrade Mao.

The border shifts, the moments fray,
And passion dissolves in the ash of day.

Her trace dissolved, a whisper on the breeze,
No compass points to where her footsteps lie.
He cannot call, his voice would find no ease,
A silent scream beneath a starless sky.

Damansky Island – Zhenbao Dao,
A war-torn world with Comrade Mao.

The border shifts, the moments fray,
And passion dissolves in the ash of day.
(it’s too far away)

Damansky Island, now Zhenbao’s name,
A distant echo of a different game.

(Damansky Island, now Zhenbao’s name,
A distant echo of a different game)
(it’s too far away)

The Hongweibing’s Lament

We tore down the old, we shattered the past,
Believing the future was ours to outlast.
But the hammer fell hard, and the sickle swung wide,
Till no one was safe, not even our pride.

Now I labor in chains beneath a pale sun,
Where the ice and the frost spare no one.
The wind howls loud, like the echoes of screams,
And the world is a nightmare that devours dreams.

I’ve seen men fall with shovels in hand,
Their bones claimed quick by the merciless land.
Their cries are brief, for no one will hear,
In a world where compassion is drowned out by fear.

At night, in the barracks, I stare at the dark,
And wonder when hope lost its flickering spark.
The slogans I shouted now taste like ash,
Their promises broken, their banners slashed.

I was a Red Guard, a soldier of change,
But now I am nothing, forgotten, estranged.

He sees her face, a sunlit ground,
Her laughter, stars in darkest around.
A tender face, now far away,
Still haunts his heart in shades of gray.
He clings to it, a fragile thread,
A vibrant hue in faded days.
Though hope is lost, and freedom dead,
Her memory in his heart still plays.

The dead lie shallow, their faces still gray,
Forgotten by all in the frost where they lay.
Their eyes, once alive, now glassy and dull,
Stare out at a world that has swallowed them whole.

The cold bites my marrow, the frost eats my breath,
And I wait for the silence — my one final death.
So let the snow fall, let the wind howl its tune,
Let the shadows grow long beneath the pale moon.

I was a Red Guard, a soldier of change,
But now I am nothing, forgotten, estranged.

I was a Red Guard, a soldier of change,
But now I am nothing, forgotten, estranged.

The Scent of Jasmine

Beneath the lanterns’ amber glow,
Through silken halls where perfumes flow,
A whisper rose, a secret stirred,
Of beauty rare, a vision unheard.

They brought her forth at twilight’s crest,
In robes of jade, her hair caressed
By moonlit strands, like rivers spun,
A mirror to the setting sun.

Her steps were soft, like petals fall,
A swan adrift in the Emperor’s hall.
Eyes downcast, yet galaxies gleamed,
A fleeting dream, or so it seemed.

The courtiers stilled, their whispers died,
As she knelt, with grace, before his side

“Rise,” he said, though his voice betrayed
A trembling note, a heart dismayed.
For in her presence, time grew still,
And power bent to beauty’s will.

Her voice, when heard, was soft as rain,
A beautiful melody that soothed all pain.
She spoke of rivers, of distant skies,
Yet words dissolved beneath her eyes.

Those eyes, so clear, so innocent and bright,
Extinguished in his soul, the long, dreary night.
A flicker sparked, a long-forgotten fire,
A yearning deep, a newly born desire.

A concubine, yet so much more,
She lit a fire unseen before

Beneath the cherry blossoms’ sway,
The Emperor loved her more each day.
And while the court would bow and scheme,
He lived within a wonderful dream.

Her face, a landscape etched in ivory pale,
With lips like petals, where sweet breezes sail.
Her eyes, twin pools reflecting heavens deep,
Held secrets slumbering, promises to keep.

And so he leaves, a man who lost his way,
Drawn by the siren song of youthful grace.
The Empress watches, silent, come what may,
A single tear tracing its lonely space.

The scent of jasmine fills the perfumed air,
Replacing rose and lavender’s soft sigh.
He trades a love that weathered every care,
For fragile beauty, destined soon to die.

He chooses thrill, regardless of the cost,
And leaves his wife, for novelty’s sweet sake

Her voice, when heard, was soft as rain,
A beautiful melody that soothed all pain.
Her eyes, twin pools reflecting heavens deep,
Held secrets slumbering, promises to keep.

A concubine, yet so much more,
She lit a fire unseen before

The Emperor Is Dead

In halls of jade where lanterns gleam,
A tale unfolded, a whispered dream –
The Emperor, in robes of gold,
Took to his side a unto loveld.

A concubine, with eyes like night,
Bore secret life beneath the light,
A child within her womb did grow,
A future sealed that none could know.

The Empress, veiled in silken grace,
Watched shadows shift and feared her place.
Her husband gone, the throne in sight –
She schemed beneath the moonless night.

And coming storm reflected in young eyes, dark pools of dread
– the Emperor is dead.

The dragon banners drop, the gold grows cold,
Death of the Emperor, a tale forever told.
His jade-carved bed, now still, a vacant space,
Leaving behind the court in hushed disgrace.

She came at night, a whisper, cold and sly,
Bearing gifts of poison, with a venomous lie.
“For strength,” she hissed, “to ease the birthing pain.”
But death bloomed sweetly, a crimson, fatal stain.

For in the law, the words were clear:
The heir must from the Empress steer.
No concubine’s blood, pure or bright,
Could claim the dragon’s ancient right.

With poison soft as lotus bloom,
She sealed the concubine’s dark doom.
A whispered breath, a final sigh,
The unborn child was left to die.

Why?

And coming storm reflected in young eyes, dark pools of dread
– the Emperor is dead.

She came at night, a whisper, cold and sly,
Bearing gifts of poison, with a venomous lie.
“For strength,” she hissed, “to ease the birthing pain.”
But death bloomed sweetly, a crimson, fatal stain.

The dragon banners drop, the gold grows cold,
Death of the Emperor, a tale forever told.
His jade-carved bed, now still, a vacant space,
Leaving behind the court in hushed disgrace.

Why?

(the Emperor is dead)

Her Voice

Through Beijing’s streets, now cloaked in haze,
He walks, a ghost of other days.
A Red star upon his chest,
But in his heart, no place for rest.

He left this soil in shadowed flight,
A pawn of politics’ cruel might.
But China held a piece of him –
A memory that time made dim.

Her voice, a bridge through tongues and strife,
Had breathed to him the pulse of life.
Each word she spoke, so soft, so clear,
Had bound his soul, had drawn him near.

He’d seen her first amidst the dusty files,
Her ink-stained fingers, graceful and so swift.
Her eyes, like jade, held ancient, knowing smiles,
A gift of solace, a forbidden gift.

Her name, now whispered on the breeze,
Still stirs his heart, still bends his knees.
Translator, guide, and so much more –
The love he lost on distant shore.

He scans the crowds, their faces blur,
Each step a prayer, a hope for her.
Through alleys lit by lantern’s light,
He chases shadows through the night.

At markets’ edge, at river’s bend,
He seeks the past he can’t amend.
He calls her name; it cuts the air,
But silence meets him, cold and bare.

He’d seen her first amidst the dusty files,
Her ink-stained fingers, graceful and so swift.
Her eyes, like jade, held ancient, knowing smiles,
A gift of solace, a forbidden gift.

The Cultural Revolution’s harsh and sweeping tide,
Had changed the landscape, scattered lives like seed.
He feared the worst, where could she possibly hide?
Had fate, or politics, fulfilled its deed?

He’d seen her first amidst the dusty files,
Her ink-stained fingers, graceful and so swift.
Her eyes, like jade, held ancient, knowing smiles,
A gift of solace, a forbidden gift.

The Language of Snow

He returns to the school where the walls still breathe,
Painted slogans faded, their power beneath
The dust of decades. Red banners are gone,
But their shadows linger, like whispers at dawn.

Now he teaches Russian, the language of snow,
Of Tolstoy and Pushkin, of hearts long ago.
But there was a time, in his fevered youth,
When Russian meant more – it was love, it was truth.

Once, in this very room, he sat at her feet,
A boy with a heart that could barely compete
With the storm of the world, the fire of the times –
The chants, the struggles, the revolutionary rhymes.

He watched her hands trace Cyrillic script,
Her fingers precise, her movements equipped
With a grace that defied the chaos outside –
In her, he saw worlds no struggle could hide.

He was a Hongweibin, a Red Guard then,
A soldier of slogans, a boy among men.

And love was forbidden, a bourgeois sin,
And his heart was a battlefield raging within.
He denounced her once, to prove his zeal,
To silence the ache, he could never reveal.

She vanished soon after, her fate unknown,
And he carried the weight, heavy as stone.
Years turned to decades, the fire grew cold,
But the guilt in his heart never grew old.

Now he stands at the front, chalk in his hand,
Teaching her language in this quiet land.
The words feel heavy, their echoes too near –
Her voice is a ghost that he still seems to hear.

“Здравствуйте, дети,” he says with a smile,
But his eyes drift back to that faraway aisle,
Where she once walked, where he once dreamed,
Where nothing was real, yet everything seemed.

He teaches her lessons, her words, her grace,
Trying to summon her shadowed face.
And though time has blurred the edges of pain,
In every “До свидания,” she lives again.

He was a Hongweibin, a Red Guard then,
A soldier of slogans, a boy among men.

And love was forbidden, a bourgeois sin,
And his heart was a battlefield raging within.
He denounced her once, to prove his zeal,
To silence the ache, he could never reveal.

(He denounced her once, to prove his zeal,
To silence the ache, he could never reveal)

A Poison Seed

(She stands, her face a fragile mask,
A teacher’s life, a traitor’s task?)

Her crime: to speak, to shape the air,
With foreign words both soft and rare.
A bridge she built with trembling hands,
Now branded false by bitter lands.

Her Russian tongue, a thread of peace,
Now twisted into thread of griefs.
They called her voice a poison seed,
A serpent’s hiss, a traitor’s creed.

The motherland, her iron gaze,
Sees treachery in every phrase.
And so, the sentence coldly passed:
To silence what might speak at last.

The walls are bare where she will wait,
Steel shadows mark the hour late.
Her books removed, her papers burned,
The world she knew has overturned.

The barren field, the chilling morning air,
A final breath, a whispered, silent prayer.
No friendly face, no comforting embrace,
Just guards and rifles, in this desolate space.

The order given, sharp and quick and cold,
The rifle rises, a story left untold.
And in the mud, her young body lies,
But not the tongue that never dies.

She sought no quarrel, no bitter fight,
Just the soft embrace of the fading light.
A book by the fire, a comforting friend,
A peaceful existence, she prayed, till the end.

A lesson lingers, stark and clear,
Of lives cut short, of love and fear.
She sought no war, no strife, no fight –
Just peace to live, and sleep at night.

(She sought no war, no strife, no fight –
Just peace to live, and sleep at night)

Red Hearts

(The red flag waves, a symbol strong and high,
And love and duty, beneath its banner lie.
In China’s heart, a story takes its hold,
Of youthful passions, and a truth untold)

When my blood flows calm as a purling river,
When my heart is asleep and my brain has sway,
It is then that I vow we must part for ever,
That I will forget you, and put you away.

Out of my life, as a dream is banished
Out of the mind when the dreamer awakes;
That I know it will be when the spell has vanished,
Better for both of our sakes.

But…
When the court of the mind is ruled by reason,
I know it wiser for us to part;
But love is a spy who is plotting treason,
In league with that warm,
Red rebel –
The heart

And on nights like this, when my blood runs riot
With the fever of youth and its mad desires,
When my brain in vain bids my heart be quiet,
When my breast seems the center of coal fires,
Oh, then is when most I miss you,
And I swear by the stars and my soul and say
That I will have you, and hold you, and kiss you,
Though the whole world stands on another way.

They whisper to me that the party is cruel,
That its reign is wicked, its law a sin,
And every word they utter is fuel
To the flame that smoulders within.

But…
When the court of the mind is ruled by reason,
I know it wiser for us to part;
But love is a spy who is plotting treason,
In league with that warm,
Red rebel –
The heart

They whisper to me that the party is cruel,
That its reign is wicked, its law a sin,
And every word they utter is fuel
To the flame that smoulders within.

But…
When the court of the mind is ruled by reason,
I know it wiser for us to part;
But love is a spy who is plotting treason,
In league with that warm,
Red rebel –
The heart

(The red flag waves, a symbol strong and high,
And love and duty, beneath its banner lie.
In China’s heart, a story takes its hold,
Of youthful passions, and a truth untold)