A few holes open up in a room,
Where light comes,
Where wind comes.
A few holes open up in a face.
Where image comes,
Where air exchanges,
Where sound goes.
A few holes open up in a heart.
What has come inside?
What has been exchanged?
What has gone out?
A few holes open up in the sky.
Drop by drop.
Scarlet, seductive, splendid flames
Carve the wilderness’ veins.
The steady drip, drip, drip
of the murdering tedium
Is every second since we parted
Is the heartbeats of fall
Is the dense raindrops
Oozing bloody honey like needle stings.
(De notre sourire, gardez le souvenir)
My life never lacks question marks,
One Autumn, I left a piece of spleen
Shaped like a comma,
In Cimetière du Montparnasse
Then I sink into a coma…
For one year and one month,
I still can’t get used to a comma,
I tried to insert an apostrophe,
I move in a perpetual comma
Forced by a slash
And endless controls…
In a cemetery by the moon unblessed
I must be drunken
With a comma, ennui, sour fruit of incurious gloom,
Assumes control of fate’s immortal loom…
I am afraid of a period
Before I click “enter”
To turn the page.
Maybe a period is necessary before a “Return.”
Sometimes you lost you shadow somewhere.
But if you can’t fly,
You simply can’t get it back.
Some people, something simply vanish
And they’re simply alive in your own cemetery.
“A fine line will set you apart
Swallow my name, swallow it down
Sing me a song”
It’s easier to leave something unsaid
Than to say it frankly, sincerely right from your heart.
It’s easier to know what to do
Than to do it immediately, perfectly right from the start.
You know all the emotions are impermanent
But you simply can’t stop the tears from flowing down your cheeks.
You simply can’t stop the heart from breaking into pieces.
You tell yourself you should not cry;
Then the tears start cutting through your heart,
Trickling into the crevices between every small broken piece,
Reflecting the disintegrated images of a sand castle you built,
Onto a cracked mirror,
Where you’re blinded by the mirages of irredecent clouds,
Where your wounds fester and stink,
Where your feelings are numbed and ossified.
So it’s better to cry like a baby until you forget why you cry.
So it’s better to yell like a tiger until you forget why you yell.
So it’s better to let it break, let it break, let it break…;
Then make art from the broken pieces you gather.
It may not be perfect. Yet it’s beautiful.
This is an architecture cemetery visited by nobody.
Nobody knows it’s there.
Only those dying buildings
Cherishing memories left by people
Will sense the call of the cemetery
And inform the people who grieve for its disappearance
Of its future destination.
More and more crowded is the cemetery.
Fewer and fewer people know its existence.
A massacre of buildings gets into full swing.
The startling casualty numbers are more than
Those of wars, earthquakes, and mudslides.
Before they had time to own their souls,
Before they had time to gather memories,
They were already slaughtered.
The building that recently died of old age
Also cannot win respect from their companions
Due to people’s nostalgic yearnings.
Saudade doesn’t last long
While apathy and oblivion are eternal.
It remembered how heartbroken it was
When it told the people bidding farewell
The location of the cemetery.
They said every year they would bring it a fresh flower,
Shed a tear,
Write a poem,
Sing a song for it.
As they sent away another batch of buildings the very next day,
They were not able to keep promises.
So no one knows this bleak mass grave.
Only the wind occasionally visits.
Only the stuff once cherished but ultimately dumped as garbage
By people living in the buildings
Would renew old friendships
Talking about the fickleness of the people they loved.
If you appreciate the street art and old buildings here, please help us save Nangang Bottle Cap Factory.
Que Reste-T-Il de Nos Amours
If the ocean is the embrace of Mother,
The green waves overgrown with seaweed
Must be the soft, wet gate
To Mother’s uterus,
Hidden behind lush plants,
Where surf occasionally splashes up.
Like a kitten,
My feet are stamping upon Mother’s belly.
Never stepping on anything more comfortable,
Perhaps I am hopping from cloud to cloud.
I knead and knead;
Then I emit a blissful purr.