There Is Something Eternal and Clear in Autumn
As sound instills sound into a trice, the instant becomes boundless of sound.
Windings and curlings rotate and revolve beyond the borders of cloudy eternity,
And meaning and non-meaning circle around an invisible center.
In the Taiji of mystery, the past comes to face the future.
At this moment a center is situated, striking a balance with another
And many other this-moments. They include those randomly hooked on the wall:
A photo, a greeting card, a memo stick, an invitation and a thank-you note.
Colorful lines on a map will never lead a person into sceneries,
But everyone remember how near one has been to a plat of reeds,
The distance measurable by a breeze, even though the river has disappeared.
Leaves float in the mid-air, digesting summer; every leaf knows
The world is made of heights, because the sunrays sieve them
And attach on their surface shades from others.
Therefore, down there, grasses are fierce with their rusty blades.
Autumn’s red face is slackening, and it will shrivel with one more frost,
But on the slipcover of the couch, tightened memory cushions green and love.
No murmurs of waves come from the far, despite repeated finger-combings of hair.
The absent-minded hair has already been resigned to winter before snowfall,
And the fingers slip down the bodily topography of climes
From nape, shoulder blades, breasts, ribs, to crotch, knees and ankles,
From satin, angularly cool, palmful plumpness, warmth, humidity, curved pliancy.
Seasons alternate, only to temper the unaltered sinews between them.
The sound into sound, the echoing bowels; it is not your voice that resounds:
You sit in front of water, day and night, but there are no bubbles of my breath.
That gardenia tree, darkly tall; how reserved can it be after the blooming May?
Lovers pass by hand in hand, and who among them may suddenly turn to it in terror,
Standing still while held by another hand, and rise isolated from all that is around?
The flowerbeds besides a church grow scarlet sages, cockscombs and chrysanthemums;
They will flower in the memories of believers and non-believers alike, after the season,
And in the moonlit garden with forking paths, the refreshed desires smell of the same
Staleness that has echoed in a myriad of nights. The present is the only presence.
Sept. 29-Oct.3, 2007