Familiarity slit me without hesitation.
My heart is not free from attachment,
though now it is strolling away.
The air is not thinning,
indeed, the water is clear.
Your breath so compact,
passionate, and hygienic.
I told you I saw the ocean:
“the ocean…is big.”
You walk, crossing a crowd,
raising both of your hands to a stranger.
That pair of palms is innocent;
I know their kind of love very well.
I arrive at a strange place’s stream.
The valley moist, the current crisp,
you on top of reeds’ green lay
lilies’ blue, a wet purple blue.
The current’s sound resembles a blade, dear,
the sound is so cold, it makes me tremble.
Has to go through a long journey,
its distance breaks my heart.
The bitterness of enduring, waves pale
and delicate—they have now surged.
It’s like I have died once,
like on a desperate blade I love.
For Wang Yang
No, I have gradually been unable to tell apart people walking on the street from knights riding through leaves. When those emerald horses lift their bodies they hold high their precious heads, apparently to observe the sun, or merely to meditate in the process of soaring. And the people crossing the shadows under the tree, when the emerald’s shades are cast on their faces, seem to recall something in the transparency and say: ah, a day dream! Therefore: you should have seen me. When the knights like lightning streak a bright light, I because of shock pretend to be pondering—only a brief thought makes me sad. The sun is baking a bright body of water under our eyes, transparency is about to cloud. Before dusk, to re-identify these wondrous matters, unless another lightning strike. I can only reckon the person shaking their head is a phantom, or a blur of the eye. They hurry past, like shadows are meant to be gray, to put lids over their heads like holding a mushroom. This funny look lights the surrounding. I am then able to see: across from me there is no one.