What On Earth Are the Facts About
About the earth, we cannot learn by looking at the sky
For the light is never stable;
Neither can we look up to the reflection in our peers’ eyes,
For they could just close their eyes or turn away.
Surprise attacks of rains overflow the face of the earth,
The square, no matter encircled by what barriers,
Has nothing to evidence its magnanimity.
But on the riverbanks, March dandelions have already impregnated themselves
With the scattering May, as if they are future facts
That are coldly growing by the lake of tears.
When the navel of the earth explodes, dirty blood gushing out,
When we cry without sounds, by the walls
Which have crumbled and the foundational stones
From the last dynasty are threadbare,
What else evidences are needed to testify that the animal
Beneath the crust has always been so evil?
Do we need all those poems that eulogize it as Mother?
Do we need all those paintings that eroticize it?
Facts rub each other and superimpose, emitting no heat or vapor,
And they flow along the fissure between seasons,
Like the haze of life and death effacing on the mirror.
We, who are so accustomed to expressing ourselves through writing and reading only,
Are nothing but bare facts that take place
And are erased by later ones, buried
In our old sacks of skins, eating, drinking and having sex,
While figures of wasps haunt our visions of the square filled with kites and banners.
Our tears were once spring water, crystal clear,
But they cannot stand a night’s sound sleep.
Who can shed tears for tomorrow? That’s a backflow.
June 4, 2008