OUTLINE

FELIX’S LOST OF WAR

HIS CAPTURE TO MOID

HIS ESCONDING TO VICINA

HIS ENCOUNTER OF GOD(S)

HE BEGAN HIS JOURNEY OF RETURN

HIS FLEET GOT DEVASTATED – ABYSS

HE SURVIVED AND WENT TO AN ISLAND NEARBY

HE ENCOUNTERED THE MIOD PEOPLE LIVING IN ANOTHER END OF THE DESERT
HIS FACE WAS VERY DIFFERENT AND NOT RECOGNIZED BY THE MOID PEOPLE, NOR DID HE

HE REALIZED THEY WERE MOIDS AND NOT ACTUALLY BAD

HE REDEEMED HIMSELF AND BEING BLESSED BY THE GOD
HE, WITH THE BLESS OF GOD, RETURNED TO HIS HOMETOWN AFTER 14 YEARS

HE ESTABLISHED A FRIENDLY RELATIONSHIP WITH THE MOIDS

THE END

About the Author:

Marked by his ingenuity in producing nuanced verses and proses, Felix Fan is a Chinese poet who strived to mark a great recognition of the world in a unique, impeccable way. He published his English poems in Chinese Newsletters, and in his early age of 14, he published 5 poems and 10 others in his age of 15. And, perhaps most importantly, his trilingual background endows him a distinguishing opportunity to connect between cultures and publish poems under the influence of different languages and cultures.

Dedicated to:

My family,

friends,

and everyone who helped me find my way

[INTRO]

Sing a song of your dream and

Tell me your desperation and the unrelenting mystery

That’s engrave’d; that’s unveil’d

Besides,

Bide, sing the song of willow and the mounts,

And touch the dawn of your dreams – caress it,

Feel the rhythms, the relentless heartbeat of Felix,

Ruler of the Fanns,

His intermittent resilience, penitence, and thoughts.

Here his journey unfolds.

Listen to the song, the song of thines,

Long it’d dwell’d,

The misery of the dimness, kingdom of wildness

Express’d before his desperate sights-

Moid, the realm of void, the abyss of his ache,

Here his journey unfolds.

[book 1]

Trenching in the strenuous treks, his mind wander’d,

Felix,

That of the virtuous glory he shall gain, on the battlefield of

Shrelix war, mounted by the bones of death,

He, horseback, yell’d onto his shrilling voice…

His allies unite’d; his ravel impend’,

Where he saw the dusk, and his dusk

Floating upfront of his beard and sights.

His shrewd sword akin, accompanied by whom

Possessing his sacred psych’

And his everlasting whim,

His eternal sage and aim.

The silvery sword, reflecting the sunrise, grin of the Erithacus,

Beads alike, gilded by the sunlight, but untame’d by the curding blood;

But these deadly roses shall never bloom.

“The warring days must soon be end’!”

Shout by Felix’s shivering lips,

Not for his cringe, yet his mights,

His might to overthrow the Shrelix,

Passing months of trenching nights,

North to South, civil’d to the curse’d

Barbarians who vacillate’d in his land,

His No-Night-Land.

The calmness of the barren land,

Marked by its disintegrated dunes

And disparate oases, bushes and caves

Were a disguise of the enemy’s troops.

The Barbarians, whom that Felix fought with hate,

Continued Roaming in his civil land.

20 years.

20 years since he was nonaged,

The barbarians, named themselves gloriously

As the Shrelixs,

Hunting for wealth,

Haunting for filth,

Hath advanced themselves from whence he knew-

The inexplicable way of profiting,

Hath benefited whom he’d rather shun

From their infant troops to their army loops.

But

Here the ravels appear’d

Amongst the bushes and trunks,

Covert with iron shields, headbands

Made by bloods from themselves

Alike the spunk of whose country, Land of Felix,

Were ready for the scrimmage.

Stranger, have you ever gotten two doors,

here you have two doors:

Be a stranger never known

Or be a person whose wisdom welly throne’d

By every man who listens your distant dream,

The song you sung…

Whence hereby you cross the latter with good content,

Oblivious of the evil bent, the demon sent,

The door of the great king of Watt,

Whose words were seen and sent as maxims,

Yet leads you to another misfortune,

Filled of challenge, yet impossible to forlorn,

Unable to absolve the demons of yourself,

The ghost of mind, the hunters of soul,

The haunting flares deep in mind;

While Felix chose the latter, his Hubris

And misjudgment were his destinations of sin

And inability to decelerate his gait…

…

The winds hereof promptly blew,

Sweeping men’s skins like needle tips;

Like whips of tornados, scratches of demon’s roars,

Here the mists were back again,

But the reputed militia of Felix did not bring their masks,

Overt and bare, but possess’d the best polished scythe,

The Barbarians, prophesy’d that of the great mist,

With their cloths and masks,

Well prepare’d, were ready to embrace the drowning warfare.

“We had no choices but to fight, for the holy glory of our Peoples,

Regimented by the holy gods

were not to be deprived, nor to be thus

Challenged by the rambunctious aliens

Rampant amongst the wilderness,

We, as saints;

They, as slaves,

Futile to mask and shield themselves,

Since we also have our owning shields!”

But whom that oversees the battlefield

Shall plainly tell the Saints’ bare attire,

Cover’d solely by its tender knitting,

Even unable to endure the imminent squalls,

Were untenable to stand

The sand-torrent

While expatriate the damn’d monsters.

Though bless’d by the goddess’ lips,

The Felixes gown still blotch’d

By the sweeping sands.

Yet soon be capture’d for his prudish pensivities;

his enemies where he’d been trialed, tortured,

and sent to the vast land of Moid, where monstrous

Fiends shall escalate himself; devoid, his call of adventure begun.

Handcuffed by mountainous weight,

Wrapped by the thorns by the carriage,
He was soon hang’d and torture’d,

Swept by the dust till dusk,

To where his soul would die thereof-

The Tribe of Shrelix.

He was march’d, ceremonies hereby quickly set;

Their victory prided, his death alive,

All the people whom he discontent’d,

Appear’d as stings, silvery needles,

Surrounded by the great Cavalry and Troops-

Adorn’d by indigo furs and velvets,

Its beauty so ugly that he shall close his burden’d eyes.

The ethereal truth he’d not accustomed to subsuming,

The Christel Clears he’d not seen in his very life,

The wooden house, tree dwellings, paved little paths,

Decorated by pearls and faint lights like fireflies.

The town,

With driven jinrikishas and employed laborers,

Gentle breezes, comforting zyphur, and ripen maize,

That he once thought was dunes and bares,

Erected so suddenly in his brain,

That was eternally impossible to imbed.

Drag’d to and fro the elapse of time,

Every second craws and pines,

Every moment fades and flies

With his urbane visage, shed of a grimy night.

His poetic instinct softly rise’d;

Scrmbbling blood desperately writes,

His mind so empty scars wound’ tight.

“Dream

Waking up within the grimes when I was stroked by nightmares, maim’d.

Staining down within the tender nights that I was spurned, unknown

Yet all-known, oblivion, and even neglecting that I am alone.

Melancholy! I must admit its omnipresence in the din rain and the dingy mind

Within my psyche and my numb hand, unwind’

Since I was born within the dream with obscure among

And mix with it; blend with it; immerse with it; with dim dimness dims along,

So I shall be dying to pursue these drowned dreams deeply into the dark pond.

Then I was choked. The brief charms in my sight last’d as a glance before the eternal yearning

Whence I sigh, whence I die, whence I realize the dawn of my dreams’ disappeared,

But I was tired of being kept alive! I was fatigued to trace my craving and longing.

I’d missed myself, restrain’d, control’d as if I was still dreaming

These blank dreams wholeheartedly within the sweety sweaty swamp.

Forgive me, forbid me, but don’t forget me in our transient dreams.”*

*: completely written by myself, an award-winning sonnet written in April, 2024.

Penetrating the eternal night,

Felix saw a thread of light-

The innocence of moon here reflect’d

Tearing down his very hope and disguise-

A warrior, intrepid and virtuous, covered by such epithets,

Whereas his curiosity and humanity were deeply shed’,

Lying down on the stony bed,

His thoughts now expressed’;

A vision of childhood, the bliss of Oblivience,

His impish grin, body reclining on the grassy lawn,

Yet now his Flesh lied on the chilly town,

Sweating, swimming, drowning.

[book 2]

The next day the dim sun gently rise’d,

Two maids, accompanied by whose lieutenant,

Shrex, exemplar of the Shrelix’s sage,

Marched and approached to Felix’s flesh,

Discovering that of his infectious smile,

And a bloody poem at their besides.

Breathing deeply with their astound’ gasp,

One servant abruptly broke:

“Revered Sir. Shrex, we must set him up,

On the journey of the hilly path,

Stretching to the serpentine Heaven,

Oversaw by the gods,

To the isolated no-man-land of Moid.

He’s a danger, a devil to our people,

For which he’d taken God’s lands for granted!

Unruly, only superior in his power, but his prowess;

God’s fury hath manifest’d his sacrilegious fate.”

“Thou of the Curse’d, babbling for the Devil’s sake,

I’m the throned, King of Fanns, and -”

“Now that the king’s captured, overthrown, and died!”

Added by the Lieutenant

Whose indifference and aversion sketch’d his countenance,

Drag’d his limbs to the very edge, sordid wall of the cell

And the blood, on the other hand, had dried, incised to the floor,

A metaphor of his blatant will.

Abdicated, Felix’s ail and gravity pervad’,

And was given two buns with barley seeds

Like tosh, while Felix gently ate with indifference,

Unwavering to their deep despise.

…

A small path meanders,

Amongst the wandering mountains

And green bushes and crimson groves with golden leaves

Where the sun kiss’d the land, benign and courteous,

But without the calming heat that heals the throngs…

Leading to the land of Felix,

Its terminus is greatly unseen for the eternal distance afar,

Amidst the crests of the mountain ridges,

In Felix’s land, where Felix was rob’d,

There is no such land anymore

But phantom warmth, an inexplicable pain.

Grieving, muted, and hashed,

The people hath lost their believes,

Like flowers without sunlight, earth without sun,

And