Take off the Shoes of Life
Dusk here comes later than in the ancient time, and it flashes by when it does.
Radiation at 6 p.m. does not cower a bit.
I don’t do this often, thinking of you. You, in a blind gut
In the downtown complex, perhaps no less familiar with ennui.
Tangible life is increasingly imitating its simulacrum.
People who share too many specifics may not make a metaphysical conversation,
While in two different worlds how can we expect them to be tangent?
One hears words drooling out: “You know life is like this and this is life……”
What else can we demand?
And yet we still look forward, with cool eyes, to a passionate life.
How to share silence is the question that always proves failures between people.
A trial of faith, a tacit pact beyond the ponds of words
Which coheres distance with silence, rather than fills distance into silence.
Faith, like folly, which our ancient sages claimed is most difficult to attain.
Silence is gold, especially when there are diamonds in the mouth.
Time never pauses, no matter we ride the back of chores or chores-ridden.
Why do people compare it to an arrow or a shuttle?
Isn’t it a trawl that we drag along the watercourse from opposite banks,
While whatever direction we may look into, our bodies surely bend forward?
We may steam or grill our catch or simply free them so they’ll soon forget each other?
These days, the wheels of showers break the day with their rattling scythe,
As if they cannot wait to drag the sleepers out of their dreams.
Often, this is the time for me to abandon everything, but they take chance to sneak in.
When a mind is over-stuffed with bookish ideals and isms, it will spare no shelf
For spice bottles. Words consume men, raw and unseasoned.
Everyone loves another life, theoretically.
So when the setting sun ogles from below, you may rise and go to the window,
Standing there for a short while to take a glance of the changing splendor.
That is enough, for thinking before an abyss is dangerous. Better pack up and go home,
Like a hunter, arrows in quiver, knife in sheath, a day’s catch hanging on the spear.
On the way home, trees are too familiar to hint whether you are leaving or returning,
But if you feel better in absent-mindedness in another life,
Let the automatic mechanism in you carry you along.
Take off shoes, scuff in slippers, bare feet and then peel upward, and finally
You walk out of clothes… Pure as a newborn creature!
The life from the morning door to the night bed can be a dotted line between lines,
And we do not listen but always hear those lyrics. Love is not love,
If not spiritually consummated, and people close eyes to feel being blindly loved.
Only dreams are kept out of life like shoes out of bed,
But they go with red wine well, and also they are not aphrodisiac.
May 7-8, 20009