A piece of heaven suddenly falls
Into the bowl, many little pearls have broken, one by one…
Clean and shiny white,
Condensed into tiny mirrors,
They speak plain words that stab my heart.
My hand holds a pair of chopsticks.
One is history, the other is culture.
Faint pattern is written in rusty red.
The weight is uneven, but hand neat and simple.
One by one, sweet manna glaced with honey.
Have fallen from the Heaven, into the wild.
Silently waiting for…
A soul like a white porcelain bowl with blue patterns
A word is a hole.
Most of the time, as thick as a finger,
Sometimes narrow like a pinhole, unfathomable
Every time, I am tempted by word.
Gazing from this side, I pray,
Through the hole, to reach the yonder.
Before this side crumbles into a pile of powder,
How much time do I have?
Straining to see through, my sight is as short as finger.
Looking into the dark, or into the light,
Brings the same degree of depression.
The existence of the other side is separated by the word.
Spirit, a horse eager to rid of its enslaving body,
Running like the wind and lightning, just for his feeling.
Impaling word, to arrive at the other side..
I must confess before I expire,
The illusion of this very moment.
Faith of the unseen eternally extends my sight..
Look at the sky, there is an eye watching me.
Perhaps it is a small black hole in the Sun
Or a leaf of cherry bay. But I am shot.
Ripped through, I feel no pain.
I just want to hear the voice of the eye.
For a thousand years, no tear came out of it.
Turning back, I shouldered the weight.
God's tears, like a swarm of flying pigeons,
Feathers rich but light, their warmth covered my back and heart.
It did not say a word, but I heard.
Going forward, I see an extra line of footprints.
In sync, walk or stop. A dim light
flickers in the dark, like the eye from above,
Casting an inverted image in the world. Past and future,
At this moment, overlapping reflection, as complex valve Peony.
The one who loves prophecy neither cares about tomorrow,
Does not want the locomotive to hang loose Containers.
Bam bam bam, walking along the track.
He only yearns for a watchful eye, hoping
His daily chore wins a sparkle in the eye.
Who knows me? Who is mindful of me?
Will the Creator bend over to human with prophecy?
Will he use his prophetic hand to touch the cold head?
Wind continues to silently ruffle the treetop.
Heaven’s eyes and my eyes listen to each other,
Deeply, sinking into a sweet quietness.
Prophets’ prophecies are like large and small fish,
Swimming above my head, spiting out gleamy bubbles.
We become each other’s prophecy in the bond of love.