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— To Fei Yingxiao
1
So, Miss, once we ask, “Why?”
The delay becomes a query.
It is the twang of the sword in its sheath, even if
the swordsman is not born yet. Till this day,
poetry hasn’t transcended that piercing sound.
2
We’re merely shooting stars. The Beginning
is asleep, waiting for a query, but time slides by.
When a line of words gets lost in the fog, the dead among us
will come back in time, retorting with anger,
or pointing the way for us with a smile.
3
Writing is a door, opening towards the champaign,
our entry and exit are the same as the daily rising and the setting of the sun,
as if in a trance a destination is beyond reach. And autumn comes,
daubing colors of the body, making them darker,
and then vanishes, like the look of a red fox.
4
These are the differences: the past means repetition,
the future is unpredictable; facing each other people,
sink into the silence of the ocean. And the wind on the margins of the body
curls. The wind is rocking us like rocking a sail,
and completes the transition unwittingly.
5
So we must watch for those that are unidentifiable,
those that are lost for a while, those that belong to a greater tradition,
and move in a place of greater distance, hiding in the rays of light —
Truth is suddenly delivered to our face
like a perfectly made cup.
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