The Line He Draws

For Tomas Transtroemer 

The line he draws on his notebook 

stretches out, endlessly, 

with the sound of an axe cutting the air, 

and continues its silent judgement, where 

the world is halved.

I’m on one side;

My deeds the other, falling soundlessly;

A rebuke— 

 

I cast my thought over 

into the realm of inanity.

It bounces like a morning dew 

on lifeless leaves.

Air is thinner there 

than a breath.

 

I grab hold of the line —the edge of existence, 

saved by an old hypothesis 

of death.

 

published at Thirty West Publishing House 

Two Monochrome Photos from Summer

1.

The morning heat 

                           breaks through the window

and warps 

                           the dream 

into a hot reality.

8 o’clock, 

                           the fateful hour of awakening,

reminded 

by a ticking watch,

with almost the same rhythm 

                                 of the heart.

A moaning summer, 

                            dying in the yards.

Some arranged flowers 

                            yellow

                            from a sad florist.

2

The scorching south wind,

                               breath 

of Feilian, coming to all

in cities or villages.

                            A wash of tolling bells.

thick shadows 

                             hidden

behind a mottled wall

and a murmuring crowd of people 

                            squatting at the gate

of a silent neighborhood.

 

Published at Thirty West Publishing House 

First Snow

The weight of winter, hard on every cloud

dropping low on this city, and soon

shredded, 

                     ground 

                                   and falling white 

from a vulnerable sky, 

                        breeding

the first shade of darkness 

                        prolonging the night.

A soft wavering voice 

                          Against the wind —

Melancholy.

 

 

published at Thirty West Publishing House