The Righteous Fire

When California’s warm winters become a sin,
Shrubs, thorns, and fallen leaves only add to the blame.
The wind is cursed as an accomplice,
While red-legged frogs and fish remain the last fig leaf of environmentalism.

The burning that captivates the world—
Whose heart does it truly scorch?
The sharpest bullet can traverse oceans,
Yet decades of wildfires have always been a false alarm.

When fish and frogs are no longer the issue,
Truth is justified by the flames.
Only fire that the world witnesses can be recorded in history,
Otherwise, wildfires will always remain weightless,
Like marginalized souls left to perish,
Neither a spectacle nor a blaze worth caution.

Now that it has become an epic sight,
A landmark should be preserved,
For generations to admire.
Otherwise, the righteousness of frogs and fish
Will always surpass that of human beings.

I Keep going! The voices in the streets

The already declining Europe has resolutely taken up the oldest justice,
Cheering for the heroic justice of the Earth, led by a comedian.
A great president questions the mistakes of yours three years ago
Why have you yet to be corrected?
Even he complains that there should be another election.

If elections equate to justice,
Then why has a historic January 6th
Become a caged disgrace?
Even if the cage is opened, the mark remains red.

Tell me, who is the beast, and who is strangling justice?
Who is walking the streets, calling out for justice now ?
Compared to shattered the glass of Congress,
The voices in the streets are all justice

If justice is obtained by shattering the glass of Congress,
Then, every day could become another January 6th.
Who, then, has truly freed whose conscience,”
Leaving the shattered glass forever beyond repair?

Oh, streets, remember this:
For walking is every person’s justice.
As long as the glass of Congress remains intact,
Every voice on the streets is justice.

II Truth against Flow：I Am the Flow, Who Do I Fear?

When the internet mends truth into a like,
A flower, one by one, is pinned to the chest,
Building the benchmark of a king’s command,
While protests on the street become mere echoes,
Shrinking into the midday and evening news—
Neither flowing nor trending, lost in the stream.

I am the flow, who do I fear?
Even if rogues control the traffic,
They can still disguise as angels,
Making people believe in the sincerity of their wings.
For to see is to believe,
And countless little flowers of likes
Have already crowned the criminal as king.

Who do I fear?
As long as I appear,
As long as I stir my wings,
I am the ultimate winner!

III Tribute to Madonna

A singer’s final dance,
Turns out to be becoming a mother to Ukraine’s children.

Ukrainian fathers scatter like shells,
Exiled as shrapnel in their own land.

The empty nests of Ukrainian women,
Tied to the so-called “mighty and glorious” figure.

Three years ago,
He sought to crush a nation in a flash,
Yet nearly became a flash himself—
Not to illuminate,
But to destroy.

Countless children left fatherless,
While he boasts of his greatness,
Trampling lives underfoot,
Killing fathers by the thousands.

Until a woman named Madonna said,
“I will be a mother to all Ukrainian children.”
Only then did Ukraine’s lost justice
Seem to find its last home on Earth.

Once the queen of rock,
Many thought she was just an aging singer,
But an aging woman’s open arms
Became a new home for children.

Those who dream of ruling the world,
Who threaten humanity with the press of a button,
These barbaric bears know nothing but destruction,
Killing fathers and leaving children adrift.

Yet they call themselves great,
Only to become a joke—
A disgrace for all eternity.

IV Fake Fathers, Real Mothers / The Children of Ukraine

The children of Ukraine,
Born without fathers because of Satan.
Madonna, once the queen of rock,
Said she would adopt all the children of Ukraine.

This earth-shaking news
Instantly created fake fathers and real mothers.

Fake fathers shatter others’ homes,
Boasting about their greatness.
Real mothers, with bare, withered breasts,
Say, “My child, as long as I live, I am your home.” 

V The Kiss of France

Like the hands of a clock tied to its dial, 
Seemingly slow, 
Yet every second is precise. 

As if the world has added a chair, 
Always reminding people to take a rest. 

VI Morning

Oranges, like heads crowding the trees,
Huddled together, still not fully awake.
In the sky, birds scream like madmen,
Chirping nonstop—
Until the sun, furious, rises in rage.