trans. Bulgarian Jascha Kessler and Alexander Shurbanov It was in the Fall of '56 that I stood where I stand still: they're drilling 20-year old marines in diving. Dolphins leap with the sheer joy of it, keeping time in the sea with them. As for me, I stumble on in grief at the mere thought…
Don't ask how many complaints I have about her black curls. I am so undone because of her that it's beyond telling. Let no one abandon heart and faith in hope of fidelity. I did. Do not ask me how sorry I am. With one gulp of wine which troubles no one I drew…
On the river at Mu-chou, west of the water gate, They raised the oars, hoisted the sail, and we released our embrace. Today, at the sky's shore, I sit deep into the night, Heart-broken and haunted by the memory of leaving Ah Yin.
Standing between good and evil, between the two frozen poles, at last between man and man, and, looking hard, I simply cannot understand how in the world life can make both ends meet.
There are two things you have to worry about about her: she opens up for you and she closes up on you, but you shouldn't worry too much about it because this is the way she is and this is the way you are: You just shouldn't mention her name. She loves you in her…
All withers in the autumn air: wine quickly wears off: Bleak and dismal, it's always like feelings felt at parting. At dusk, I lean on a pillar: I don't go home; My heart breaks at the patter of wind and rain on the green lotus.
So far no one's confirmed the words that say we're made of earth. Yet there they are in writing. A title on the blackboard — the teacher vanished without warning, his lecture gone undelivered. Tell me, you digger of deep wells, …
Orioles bubble in the shade of green sophora, secluded courtyard empty this spring day noon; painted curtain hangs, golden phoenixes dance, solitary, but the embroidered screen, one stick of incense. Clouds in the azure sky have no fixed home; in vain my dreaming soul comes and goes;…
What if time came to a stop? Surely the end would be struck dumb. Up on the hill the house where you were born is waiting for you to build it again. How and with what — bricks, wasn't it? The chimney's all you can remember: smoke vanishing in spirals like the string of a…
Winter 2007-08 - Digital