On the campus, a water pump sends water into somersaults
Peeling the moldy sheet off the dead water and hanging it in the sun
Students and professors pass by like autumn wind
No one gives a second thought to the splashing water
A few peasant workers stare at the water
Such greedy look in their eyes
Embarrassed water buries its face under their gaze
A wound buried deep in the running ditch
It’s still autumn, but the workers are already talking about winter
Is it because the fire in the flowing water stops it from freezing?
Or the splashing water bends like a working peasant’s back?
Or because the water foams like cotton, calling them home?
The water pump ties water to its side like a white horse
Only the migrant workers hear its neighing for help
The campus’ indifferent eyes cut deep into its flesh
A peasant worker lowers his face to the horse’s hooves
The dust on his face joins in the water flowing all the way home
It comes, throwing a tantrum in my body
20 years already, I still don’t know its language
The body has to lie down, the eyes must close
The mouth, like a construction site, utters piercing sounds
The body curls, wishing to return to the womb
I’ve lived 50 years on the earth, do I need a rebirth?
Maybe I’m just a battered boat, wishing to fold and unfold my sail?
The migraine beats me like a drum, non-stop
Wind knocking on the window, does it want to join in for a pop song?
Pain ties my tongue around moaning
Forbidding it to open its wings
Pain is a sea, showing me the horizon of life
Pain scolds me for not knowing the joy of a farmer’s market
When pain approaches, even my past loneliness becomes content
My pain is no longer alone; it has become a history book
A museum that collects agony
At dusk, that stray cat would arrive
Quiet like night, no appearance of hunger or struggle
It crosses the suffering in elegance, towards me
Unlike humans, walking each step as if it were a song
It doesn’t have a name to confuse my thoughts
Its fur is more trustworthy than any names
Like a hermit, it collaborates with long nights
Would the food I put out lift its fate into a middle class?
My charity, how much of it comes from the heart?
Maybe it’s just a gesture to fight great emptiness
Before night closes its door, nothing is true, not even dimples on a star
Look at her appetite! She eats in the manner of
A bank, saving all the hunger of humanity
Her coat is thick like winter jackets
Warning us of the coming winter
I whistle, to build our common tongue
Each sound is a grain of longing