We vanish on a night like this
This is so good, as if pluck strings deep in the mountain.
What being heard are rocks, withered leaves. The creek nearly halts,
half still half motile.
Then, people feel bored, no shower, no good night,
fall asleep in melancholy.
No matter the moon shines or not, the abyss continuously deepens.
I said in the pond of time, we ought to fear a bit
during our course of free fall.
I mean ought to. This has nothing to do with
the arrived, and the yet-to-arrive.
Night falls, over and over again, no sign of exhaustion.
No matter how we cope with, we will cringe and huddle.
A Le, this is different from a hug, the only shared is
the sentiment that they are dispensable,
and we never said good night.
Once I become quiet, I will be shackled and forced to tug with time.
I will pull hard if I’m not hungry.
I will lie shamelessly on the ground if I haven’t had dinner.
Let it pull me at will,
like a dog who looses its barking.
But the results are the same, joyful, worrisome.
Oh, the results might mean something different to others.
They are on the train to other destinations,
recite other lines in a play.
One careless slip of tongue becomes a jinx.
But you, an actor in a small town, a show host,
is trapped like a loach fish by the river Han.
Trapping is also a form of accomplishment.
A person shouldn’t absorb every breath of whole secular world,
or gaze at a city’s eyes.
A livelihood and life in turmoil don’t fade their colors.
Ale, we both are committing crimes.
I am casted light by the plants in the village.
You are expelled by the neon lights in the city.
We fear vanishing, we cling tight to our black boxes.
Even if it’s death, it’s in
our own blood vessels.
I loose patience to my passion,
and your indifference.
To live or not is indeed another matter.
However we exist for many years, without any doubt.
This is unforgivable.
You cough, and cough,
as long as you don’t cough up sputum.
Ah, I can never get rid of my obsession for hygiene.
I can’t tolerate my lover to pick his nose, spit in front of me.
But a farmer’s corpse is dug out.
I still want to touch it,
although I keep throwing up.
Death continuously surges towards me, I feel so light to float.
Of course, I won’t go to capture you, Ale.
Your existence is not for me to capture,
but for me to instantly know how to debone
when I pick up a knife.
But let’s just forget it.
Everyone becomes lighter and lighter, more so when you are concerned.
Up to this point, I suddenly loose my words.
You sleep tight. I sit still.
A eight thousand mile long spring.