— To Fei Yingxiao
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.
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.
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.
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.
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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