更新时间:2013-11-17
蟾宫 • 死在桃花源:Poem “Steam”
Now rising, now receding,
now arriving, now evaporating,
steam that spirals up
to the promise of tomorrow,
vanishing before the dead of noon
in the depths of distress
from the angels of heaven and earth
and purgatory and hell.
You search the latitudes of currents,
of infinite triangles
with anxious perceptions,
of torrents and waves and curves
in perennial mutation.
You are Sisa The Mad Mother of the Desert,
your are Tasyo the Philosopher,
in a universe that feigns idiocy
for 4 pennies worth of thoughts
of beautiful and new times.
You were but a child when
they went to the moon.
You were but a boy when a mountain
grew and arose from the lake
of the city.
Every day you saw earth and sky,
paradise and hell.
There is no corner in the world
that would offer people refuge.
There is blood in the window
of a lost virgin.
You fished for the stars
on the zenith of the mango tree.
You were but a boy when
the church collapsed.
You were but a boy when
all of them were murdered.
There is a mysterious song,
persists in the memory.
A face from the past appears fleeting.
Restlessness born of the past.
The once muddy path
has been paved into a street.
The mountains were smashed,
and turned into gravel.
Then they buried your childhood friend.
You protest in vain, but your body's infirm.
You've lost strength, you've lost your vigor.
The time in your hands is but a cage.
The Zarzuela's revues have gone
out of fashion, amusing no one.
You try to let fly the hidden curse.
At the ports full of fish,
there you recite poetry.
There the metaphor lies,
there the mystery resides.
You sing in the dwelling of the drug addicts.
You dance with one prostitute
grasping her waist.
You return to your house
at the end of the night.
The wind whispers,
the stars stare at you.
The branches tremble,
some groaning in the wind.
The breeze comes to a stop,
you can't tell your way.
You will stop a little while
to piss by the wayside.
Heat will escape,
struggle out of the ground.
You will emit a sigh.
That's the end of it.
You know that you have sinned, you know that
your days on Earth are numbered.
Nobody is honorable.
Nobody is a hero.
Nobody is a criminal.
Nobody is a saint.
No one is miserable.
There is no miracle.
Nobody is poor.
Nobody is rich.
No soul
No memory.
None.
No escapes.
You crawl in the ocean of the memories,
refusing to flee
the solitude of your prison.
They transport you back
to a time before you were born,
bringing you to a garden
that withered before blooming.
They ensconce you in a season
of autumn before spring.
They repose you in a world of storms,
in a universe that does not find peace.
None?
No one can alleviate the bitterness
of each turning of time.
No one can do away with pain
while each sacred image falls
in the middle of your eyes.
now arriving, now evaporating,
steam that spirals up
to the promise of tomorrow,
vanishing before the dead of noon
in the depths of distress
from the angels of heaven and earth
and purgatory and hell.
You search the latitudes of currents,
of infinite triangles
with anxious perceptions,
of torrents and waves and curves
in perennial mutation.
You are Sisa The Mad Mother of the Desert,
your are Tasyo the Philosopher,
in a universe that feigns idiocy
for 4 pennies worth of thoughts
of beautiful and new times.
You were but a child when
they went to the moon.
You were but a boy when a mountain
grew and arose from the lake
of the city.
Every day you saw earth and sky,
paradise and hell.
There is no corner in the world
that would offer people refuge.
There is blood in the window
of a lost virgin.
You fished for the stars
on the zenith of the mango tree.
You were but a boy when
the church collapsed.
You were but a boy when
all of them were murdered.
There is a mysterious song,
persists in the memory.
A face from the past appears fleeting.
Restlessness born of the past.
The once muddy path
has been paved into a street.
The mountains were smashed,
and turned into gravel.
Then they buried your childhood friend.
You protest in vain, but your body's infirm.
You've lost strength, you've lost your vigor.
The time in your hands is but a cage.
The Zarzuela's revues have gone
out of fashion, amusing no one.
You try to let fly the hidden curse.
At the ports full of fish,
there you recite poetry.
There the metaphor lies,
there the mystery resides.
You sing in the dwelling of the drug addicts.
You dance with one prostitute
grasping her waist.
You return to your house
at the end of the night.
The wind whispers,
the stars stare at you.
The branches tremble,
some groaning in the wind.
The breeze comes to a stop,
you can't tell your way.
You will stop a little while
to piss by the wayside.
Heat will escape,
struggle out of the ground.
You will emit a sigh.
That's the end of it.
You know that you have sinned, you know that
your days on Earth are numbered.
Nobody is honorable.
Nobody is a hero.
Nobody is a criminal.
Nobody is a saint.
No one is miserable.
There is no miracle.
Nobody is poor.
Nobody is rich.
No soul
No memory.
None.
No escapes.
You crawl in the ocean of the memories,
refusing to flee
the solitude of your prison.
They transport you back
to a time before you were born,
bringing you to a garden
that withered before blooming.
They ensconce you in a season
of autumn before spring.
They repose you in a world of storms,
in a universe that does not find peace.
None?
No one can alleviate the bitterness
of each turning of time.
No one can do away with pain
while each sacred image falls
in the middle of your eyes.
