by Wu Qingshui tr. Fan Jinghua
If labor proves itself a failure
And cannot finish a whole life’s things-to-do
Let there be at least something on your mind and for the tongue
When death menaces, where should we go to publicize a show
I am no Pessoa. Not capable of reflecting upon the suffering universe
In an imaginary attic, and unable to provide myself a tangible door
Or a Hamlet, a comet, a heavenly body and its freedom, a beauty and her beast…
So many words, with pouncing heart like rabbits
Are so non-active to me that the magic of language does not filter through
Oh, me, my god! Is pain reclaiming my joy despite anything I try? The joy
I once secretly received, the joy I need to learn and understand,
The joy that secretly needs me. Is it just another routine program
That you have meticulously produced, one that is like
A plug-and-play, illusionary and omnipresent, and appears in a masquerade?
Or, if it is not, how can this be stopped?
And I, am I one among the shallow generation?
About the author:
WU Qingshui was born in 1977, one of the many young men aspiring to a life devoted to poetry. He has worked at different times for different perionds of time as an editor to different magazines. Now he is an editor of a newspaper in an enterprise. He publishes a book of poetry Where Does the Snow Wake (2003).