THE WATCHMAN

Zhou, he who, wandering through the light-coloured atmosphere

Of the world, suddenly stops; and from the floor of the forest

Nowhere in particular, but within a new scene of thought,

A negative sympathy arises; yet why such a violent, unauthorized

Separation of what nature has joined? Corpses lying unburied

In the streets: rogues abounding making horrible profits...
 

Coincidence rises and Zhou reflects: even his horse, chaos, seems to whisper

Expediency.  A strangely applied mathematics, then, Zhou’s mind;

Would it have leapt toward the parishes of Europe, he might have made out
  

A lantern in the liquid morning light,

                                                           daybreak over the backward dark

Shining back from a looking glass; light coming through the glass yet

The glass not perished. Wracked by this daemonic repeat, 

He, the watchman, looks over his journey whilst sounds float

On the breeze, this awful light lingering on the earth.