Επιμέλεια: Εύα Πετροπούλου Λιανού
Tomorrow is the Chinese New Year’s Eve, it’s the day of getting rid of the old and welcoming the new, but I still feel like I’m the same old ego. Writing a new old poem, my pessimism may not necessarily mean it is profound, but it must be more real.
Every Year
Every year, the stars set out anew into the cold and dark.
Every year, their cries freeze midair, like white snares.
Skaters on the pond at the forest’s edge always carve silver rings,
Intertwined, encircling a collapsing center that grows darker.
Every year, someone always clips obituaries from the newspaper, postponing the news.
Every year, you always want to put an end to everything.
but things are always halfway between new and old.
You are always forced to wrestle with the statue on the cross,
you think you’ve nailed it down completely,
yet every year, it always struggles to resurrect
like a garment descending from the sky, wrapping you again.
That gray, icy hood snaps behind your head,
yearning for the warm, white thoughts within your bones.
Every year, the train always arrives at the same desolate station,
barely maintaining operations, with a stationmaster dozing like a dim wind lamp.
You cannot die, nor can you live, wavering between the two.
Every year, the stars always are the universe’s final nails.
Every year, you are condemned anew, without any charge or trial.
January 27, 2025
每一年
每一年，星星都重新向寒冷和黑暗出发
每一年，它们的呼喊都像白色的圈套冻结在空中
树林边池塘上的滑冰者，总是画出大大小小的银色圆环
交织着，围绕着一个逐渐变黑的坍塌的中心
每一年，总有人把报纸上的讣告抠下去，推迟着消息
每一年，你都想把一切彻底了结
可是事物总是半新不旧
你总是必须继续和十字架上的雕像搏斗
你以为已经彻底钉死了它
可是每一年，它都挣扎着复活
像一件衣服从天而降，把你重新包裹
那灰色冰冷的兜帽，在你脑后咔哒直响
渴望着你骨头后面温暖的白色的思想
每一年，列车抵达的总是同样冷清的车站
勉强维持着运营，站长昏昏欲睡如一盏昏黄的风灯
你无法死去，又无法活着，你在两者之间犹豫
每一年，星星总是宇宙的最后一把钉子
每一年，你都被重新定罪，又没有任何罪名和审判
2025年1月27日
