老瓦：时光的韧性

Turn ear to whispering of some youthful songs that echo afar

from the other end of sky,

since the lake invents its inert music,

and autumn leafs rustle their poetry,

in escort of our narratives to land on the shore,

while shadowing the tranquility of dusk that is utterly filtered,

as to await the sun, dawdling at further slowing pace,

who’s about to render a gentle reflection of our time

into another thin strand of grey hair behind ears.

Absolutely, the time’s up.

Rice, grape and also intoxicant,

all through each measure of our maturing and aging,

have now come prepared with glaring costumes for the season.

Along shafts of twilight dressed in daintiness,  

in no time will our salvaged blood be setting to flame,

and it is to burn down the bridge crossing light-years

that so distances memories apart from us.

Sure it is time, because the tune of flute is mounting,

the air promptly altering its form, 

and the answers forever in our desperate hunt

are manifesting themselves crisscrossed all over fingertips,

hence coming alive, from deep within our faith to this late autumn,

will be the very native miracle of poetry.

Inhabiting darkness like caterpillars

for a hiatus of twenty years transpiring to be exhaustive,

only at this small pause

are we feeling privileged to shed tears like a giant,

when shimmering ripples on the lake send up for redeeming,

yet again, another very appearance of our time