Visiting the memorial hall for the victims of the Nanjing massacre was a sombre and chilling event. The remains of the tortured bodies openly exhibited in dimly lit halls, and the haunting opera tracks in the background, made surfacing out into the open almost a relief. Walking the length of the reflective pool under the outstretched arm of a statue brandishing a soaring dove, I was silent.
I lean my head slowly to the side, reflect on the camellia on the moss
of the temple, reflect on a cup of tea, while outside the wind is rustling
the foliage, the forward rush of life is crystallised in a brilliant jewel
of a moment that knows neither plans nor future, human destiny is rescued
from the pale succession of days, glows with light at last and, surpassing
time, warms my tranquil heart.