the solitude of Queenstown

translated by PLS

1

sunrise behind you, in the middle of an autumn

upon an unknown tree, one leaf, sometimes half green half red

sometimes fully green, you never know, which is its true colour

most trees are left with few leaves, dangling on the tips of branches

like wind chimes dancing at the edge of the eave, so often so close to being lured away by wind

you never know if it’s out of their own belief, or fate, they are still gyrating

under the branches, making pretty sounds—

the sounds entangled with dusty wind, floating on

no set directions, meaning the direction is everywhere

going everywhere and having nowhere to go, may both be considered freedom

if they still return after all the travelling, those leaves, perhaps had their own destination long ago 

it is through these twists and turns, they have met some kind people

offering some goodness to the arid land, witnessing the villagers’ suffering

they live full of hope, yet do not really understand fate

but those who know a thing or two about fate, can’t live properly

2

the wintry cold, has its own structure

not sure if it’s the cold wind that slaps me, or me who barges into the interior of a gust, disturbing its will for winter

i’ve stared at the sky before a winter day turns to night

half moon, one side a clear arc, the other sfumatoed by misty clouds

surrounded by a clear halo, looking up from where i am (if that height means the sky) 

as if through a neat crevice in the dark veil, disclosing its inquisitive, honest eyes

it’s difficult to know, whether it’s my stare that probes it, or itself that has been probing the land I stand upon all along

after all it understands the night and winter better, the solitude of Queenstown on this land

3

as the temperature drops, it starts snowing atop the mountains

maintaining the wintry prestige is the responsibility of every mountain, it’s been like this, the tradition is older than the mountains

only the sound of wind chimes that passes, can then through a few detours, tell the people under the mountains: there’s only solitude of the snow high up

if the snow envelops the whole mountain, when the sound passes by, it will be frozen, unable to reach the next stop, the higher height

and only the Wakatipu Lake at the foot of the snow mountain, can stand the new weight of the snow mountain

stand the scream of every snowflake as they crack, stand the spring as they melt

stand me, stand you—

you are, the snow that never reaches my door

where you lie is the depth of my eyes, one winter then you’ll leave

like many who have come to skate, who would’t stay forever with what they love, and would’t stay only with them

the sound of wind chimes has turned into my sinuous longing, that passes by the height you never reach

and returned to where i am again, returned to leaf—

this is the resurrection of one winter and many winters

this is the twisting obedience

this is the solitude of Queenstown