To My Poetic Self
星期五 六月 12, 2009 8:00 am
1)
Oh, dear, do you really want to be that free?
Or is freedom the fire itself destroying everything?
Do you really love a rose with thorns,
or just the soft part of the unbearable pain?
You think salt seasons the meat;
yet it turns to be the cause of the barren land.
Everything depends on a small chance,
or fragile imagination.
You think you can hold on and grow -
the sky, the mountains,
and the ladders…
Sorry, my dear, too late to regret.
No matter how you stroke the brush
for another touchup,
no matter how you make up your mind -
in a poetic way or for an ardent confession,
truth spreads out
like the bleeding sunset.
It settles your night
in a sudden silence.
2)
I learn the most from silence.
Night opens the door.
I watch you wander in my dream.
The mist rises in my mirror,
I cannot make out your face, and mine.
But by now, I am familiar with an unknown tree,
a trembling leaf,
a sudden lightning and a rolling river…
Still, you are you,
no certain form, no firm shape, but the messenger,
the fountain of creativity and the island of freedom.
Wherever you point at,
I become the fire of your torch,
the lotus in your pond,
the tear from your eyes,
the seeds of your tree.