Camphor Rhapsody
Camphor Rhapsody
1.
Years later, sketches in those shades
Were dig out. The juicy draft and clean fruit still
Condense the atomized face, linking a reversal dream
for the dry season. Boundless flickering in the height.
Southwest part of the time to retain,
We explored our own season beside a light rail.
Without a leaf we are empty
But to resist the independence unrepaired.
Without the polar day,
We redecorate the camphor growing in the rock.
I will miss the flicker, then grab the hair of night.
Looking around, departure blow vagrant’s light.
Dongchuan Road, I’d rather you were born on the plateau
Before all roar stagnating, we still have the silence of mountains.
Years later, broken words are gentle.
You and I cling to the tides of the night
And engrave words on the lake.
Your hair to make the land of Annual ring,
To make the inverted house with——
All honesty consumed for solemn seclusion.
So I learned to run and rock,
learned to ignite green flames at the top.
The skin missed seasons by chance,
Leaving broad leaf on nose.
And you drunk the arm of the spring.
2.
Deviating from the crowd, the roof grew branches,
I climbed over the rail using night’s brightness.
Rhythmic signals, fishing for the Far East cascade of exiles.
There was no room for compression,
Only with candlelight returned by virtual ink
filled with sober sounds.
Reciprocal words warm each other.
So low the sky, the island or the roof.
Unintruded feast reconstructed imagination and space.
Outside is the light left by aphasia——dilemma.
Constantly touching the pity of minority,
As fish breathe between water and stones.
But sometimes breathing is useless.
Useless to change a way to root.
Borges still lacks the will to empathy.
Reproduction and duplication, the long lost love
Overturned at this moment, still no call.
Write them down, and use climax clay to resist label.
Arrogant labels, fade the texture to bleak.
And fade the pure skin naked.
“One person is more than a group”.
An autumn of tolerance
is more than a season of camouflage.
3.
I try to describe the movement of light,
which sleeps and evaporates in the closed eyes.
It pours into nerves and fills the silhouettes
In the veins of the leaves.
All day snuggle, all excess brightness pulped into seeds,
Ready to fall, waiting for the impulse of self-reflection,
Overflowing intensely.
Standing on the edge of visual field,
Poetry becomes a reprise of experience.
In the ancient prophecies, the shyness of renewal
Has allowed us to cross several Shanghai, flourishing here.
But when the snow could darken the whole city,
so restlessly, and we could burn smoothly.
Continue to look for a light land,
The growth of the horizon edge will eventually
Envelop the center with rhetorical fantasy.
4.
Dew lifting camphor, clutter still supplies crankiness
Attitudes, negated by attitudes
Wisdom, invent classical secretion,
Born out of nothing.
Philosophical, colludes silt in my blood,
Aesthetic, tied to branches, hanging down with loneliness.
We here in the tiny booth, witness colorless revolution
Fresh youth is still dormant, listening
Writing expensive words on broken boundaries
Unmoved either by gain or loss.
And I, accompanying me,
Set out in turn, heading for the infinite minority.
You and I, under the camphor tree tonight,
like a haystack looking for fire in the wind.
2018.10.5-10.7
