Or It is Called Spring
Written and Translated by Echo
Note: This poem was originally written in Chinese.
Or maybe spring is hidden right in the mud of the garden.
The grass drops off a little green.
You smell that there’s something unusual in the air.
Suddenly stricken that, another year’s passed.
Close the door and turn around
Still it’s an ordinary sunny day
But whether winter leaves, no one cares.
It’s just another afternoon.
Suddenly you notice
Scarfs are gone in the warm wind.
Or maybe the camera captured the world too frequently,
one or two leaves missing, seems that you can never find your eyes’ blackspot.
(I’ve ) fallen in love with JiMi’s new drawing
for it’s just like a real paradise,
Is the blind girl really that blind?
and whether the angel really fare her well at the entrance of the subway,
or maybe spring is hidden in the tidal wave far off the distance,
some of (my) funny memory
maybe shouldn’t be there.
or maybe (I )really immersed myself in this small place with more than ten springs
the couldn’t-be-called-spring spring, immersed again and again
think of this, then think of huge loss…
or maybe the spring is just what it is:
some sorrowful tears,
some memories bitter or sweet,
the little stars in the phantoscope,
the smell of tasty cooking when walking streets.
The not lonely fireworks in the dark sky,
the teacher with new bow tie,
the editions report about flower.
Spring literally is so specific,
specific so as to make me disgust,
disgust and finally makes me dizzy under the sky.
Or maybe spring is just a secret sample,
a bookmark, ever was a predestined jade green
was narcissus, was butterfly
caged in HAMMURABI’S CODE OF LAWS, pages waiting for piece of new
with broken wings fallen from the sky
then again staggered away…
the far off distance spring, where on earth gathers the cuckoo (over the sky),
or maybe it wouldn’t be that unbearable when trying to review it as a whole
the so-called backbiting, so-called gossip
so-called inadvertently wrongs
the so-called scores, so-called college entrance examination
so-called expectant eyes
the so-called friends, so-called bosom friend
the so-called breathe and breathe
the so-called fame or nonfame
so-called moment and immortality
Or it is called spring
This poem was reprinted with the Author’s permission.
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