China Coast

You fit, standing here amongst us - foreigners, French, Russians, fools and stare out at Shanghai. You say that every tree in China owns a page in China's mind, held fast. You say your dying country's soul is in books, and tell me not wrongly that the pictures I brought over are soulless; next to the mind's speech printed in Chinese characters. You tell me without blinking That we foreigners killed China - drugged her, raped her and slew her. Russian hands fumble with China with her shoulders and her waistline, kiss her, as if her kisses stand against a century of greed.