黑鸟降落在夜的空白
芬芳将他还给子宫
风
为何给我安慰
Translation:
Black bird lands on the blank of the night.
Fragrance returns him to the womb.
Wind,
Why comforts me?
Inspired by Haizi’s poem 献给黑夜的献诗, I wrote this poem to express my contemplation on death. What does it mean to die and not exist any longer?
We can look at everything from a third-person perspective — everything except the death of "I." From the first-person point of view, the death of "I" means the disappearance of everything — a disappearance that is final and everlasting.
电视机停止播放
黑白像素逃匿
我闭上眼睛
看到，
重影的鱼。
岸上的鹅在跳舞
路的转折迎来终点，
降雨，
洗刷了泥垢，
洒落的珠宝
不再唯一
太阳融化了衣裳
倒影看到了我
黑侵噬了脚趾
你在后面走
用照相机记录我的后脑
岸上的鹅被拔去了羽毛
叫声，更加高调
只是水里的鱼
只看见一副血红的肉体
Translation:
The TV stops its play,
black-and-white pixels slip away.
I close my eyes
and see
the afterimage of fish set free.
On the shore,
geese dance in glee.
The road’s turn meets its end;
rain falls,
washing the grime,
scattered jewels
no longer unique.
The sun melts my clothes to a stream,
the reflection sees me whole.
Blackness devours my toes.
You walk behind,
a camera capturing
the back of my head.
On the shore,
the geese are plucked bare.
Their cries,
sharper in the air.
While the fish in the water see
only a blood-red body,
a flesh devoid of identity.
in response to Berger’s Ways of Seeing