On June eighteenth, two thousand sixteen at dawn,
Zhang Shanpeng stood where the wild path went on.
At MacLehose edge in southern China’s land,
A hiker well-trained with a phone in his hand.
The Sai Kung trail was cruel yet grand,
A hundred long kilometers of forest and sand.
Storms came unannounced, fierce and fast,
Yet Zhang felt prepared from adventures past.
He snapped a photo, the view was divine,
Then thunder cracked like a cursed design.
Green skies darkened, the heavens roared,
A storm descended—chaos poured.
Before one step touched that dangerous way,
The storm vanished fast, as if swept away.
Suspicious but calm, he chose to proceed,
Posted the photo—“Strange weather indeed.”
The forest welcomed him warm and still,
Ocean waves visible over each hill.
Fresh air whispered, the city felt gone,
Peace wrapped the path he wandered upon.
But an hour in, as the trail climbed steep,
The air grew heavy, the heat ran deep.
His vision blurred, the world spun tight,
And Zhang collapsed, swallowed by night.
Grass kissed his cheek when his eyes awoke,
Disoriented, confused, and broke.
Day had vanished—dark ruled the sky,
His phone revealed hours slipping by.
Twelve lost hours with no clear cause,
A call from his wife gave him pause.
He lied with a smile, hid growing dread,
Checked his body—alive, not dead.
But the forest had changed, its voice erased,
No birds, no streams, no life, no trace.
The ground untouched where he once lay,
As if time itself had swept him away.
His bag lay empty—no phone, no gear,
Panic rose sharp, cold, and clear.
He screamed for help, but none replied,
Then darkness claimed him once more inside.
Morning returned—same hill, same place,
Still empty supplies, still no trace.
Hope sparked faint—they must be near,
Searchers called by a wife in fear.
A pond appeared he’d never seen,
Beside it stood a silent being.
He called hello—no head turned back,
Instead it fled on a winding track.
Desperate, starving, weak yet fast,
Zhang gave chase through shadows cast.
The figure stopped, no breath, no face,
A void stared back from empty space.
Fear froze his bones, death felt near,
Eyes shut tight in mortal fear.
When he looked—the thing was gone,
Reality bent, night moved on.
Pond erased, daylight lost,
Time itself had paid its cost.
Again he fell, again he slept,
Between the worlds his soul was kept.
A cemetery rose where none should be,
Graves two hundred years old stood free.
Figures gathered, hope ignited—
Until faceless dread returned, united.
He ran once more, fate unclear,
Back to the pond, night drawing near.
Then whispers came from stone and stream,
The earth itself began to speak in dream.
Acceptance bloomed, resistance died,
And when he woke—the forest sighed.
Sounds returned, the world alive,
Sanity back—he could survive.
Three shapes ahead blocked freedom’s door,
Shadows again… or so he swore.
One turned round—a human face,
A voice of rescue, time and place.
Tears fell hard, his strength was gone,
Lost days ended, nightmare done.
Searchers never saw his form,
Though they walked close through sun and storm.
Doctors claimed dehydration’s blame,
But Zhang knew truth beyond that name.
The MacLehose Trail, the Sai Kung line,
A portal where lost worlds intertwine.
Called the Bermuda Triangle of South China,
Where hikers vanish—never finer.
Zhang believes he crossed the veil,
Fell through space where logic failed.
Only by surrender did he return,
When earth and water let secrets burn.
Though his body healed, his mind still stays
In shadowed woods of endless days.
And to this night, the trail still calls,
Where time dissolves and reason falls.