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
