In the scorched remains of a violent sun

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In the scorched remains of a violent sun

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1.

We pass into oblivion,

the scorched remains of a violent sun,

nearing desperation

and still, dawn,

somewhere in that moment,

shivers from cold,

eagerly looks forward to that same sun to rise.

Every thing,

every substance,

has its limits.

Who can break free

of the infatuations of excess?

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In that most revered hall

some die of humiliation,

some are besieged by humiliation

with no choice but to wander

within the city’s walls.

And day by day, the tyrants lose weight

as do those wrapped in crimson robes,

encountering one horror after another,

the slow unfolding of cause and effect.

Is there any deeper meaning?

Is there a way out?

What can we rely on?

Can we reach our destination

by a different path?

By that I don’t mean death.

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2.

A bronze bell from a distant country falls

unexpectedly

a single seam splits open—

but there’s no room to slip through

not for them

not for me.

Let’s bore our way in and hide!

And yet, none of us have cultivated

the ability to shrink

shrink

the ability to shrink and become

another race.

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Originally, the bell hung high

above the entrance of a Buddhist hall.

People bowed their heads as they passed below

“As the deer pants for streams of water….”

The bell was the background

it was the purpose

and yet it doesn’t matter

because it, too, was unable to stop

the violent torrent of the revolution—

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that singular monster that bit us all

black and blue.

But the more unbearable pain

relates to the falling of the bell.

We expected it to reverberate

like thunder when it hit

the ground, a trembling

that would rescue us,

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not for it to fracture

without sound

without breath,

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shattered.

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3.

They say that deep underground

there’s a quiet lake.

Paintings string from one wall to the next

with scenes of sentient beings

filling the lake and building the temple.

There is even an image

of a pure white baby goat

carrying more dirt on its back

than carried by any of the others.

Something stems from gratitude,

people say it becomes some godly power,

something singular and uncommon.

And I,

I just want to take a sip of the lake.

What does its water taste like?

Our life is so bitter.

We need imagination’s sweetness.

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4.

There is a tranquil silence

under the scorching sun

I can only stretch my toes

so far into its heat,

the rest of my body

must shelter in cool shade.

And I keep recoiling.

We all want to protect ourselves,

and yet, this selective action

is also a form of selective amnesia.

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There are those who, in an attempt

to conceal secrets, plant trees

on top of one ruin after another.

The ruins have already become

part of the trees’ shadows,

as if the annihilation can no longer be seen.

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And not far away, the golden dome

of the Phodrang Potala stands alone,

doing its best to shine.

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The crime of negation

is knotted to memory.

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—Woeser, September 12, 2023, Lhasa

(translated by Ian Boyden)

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沉沦于烈日的炙烤……

1

我们沉沦于烈日的炙烤几近绝望

但黎明那时因冷得发抖，又急切地

盼着快点日出……万事万物皆有度

但谁又能挣脱对过度的迷恋？

在那座至尊之殿，有人死于受辱

有人困于受辱，不得不浪迹城中

而施暴者日渐消瘦，竟也同样地

身裹绛红袈裟……当我遇上这种种

惊骇于因果律的降临如此迟缓，或

另有深意？哦，众生的出路

凭靠什么，才会殊途同归？

2

一口来自遥远异国的铜钟突然坠落

裂开一条缝，却容不下他们或我

钻进去藏身，毕竟都没有修炼出

缩小、缩小，缩成另一个物种的本事

它本来高高地悬挂在佛殿的入口

走过的人群垂首，“如鹿切慕溪水”

是背景，也是目的，但也无妨，却也

无力阻挡汹汹而至的革命，那是一头

怪兽，我们全都被它咬得遍体鳞伤

但更难忍的疼痛与钟的坠地有关

原本我们指望它的响声震如救拔

而不是无声无息地，断裂

3

都说那深深的地下是静静的湖泊

连墙壁上都画了众生填湖盖寺的场景

还有一头洁白的羊羔背土最多，出于

感激，被人们说成了神力非凡

而我，仅想饮一口湖水是何种味道

人生太苦了，需要臆想的甘甜

4

烈日下的静谧，我仅将双足

伸向炙烤，肉身的其余

须隐入阴凉，且不停后退

这选择性的动作如同选择性的失忆

我们都想自保，那些为掩饰秘密

在一片片废墟上移植的树木

已经成荫，仿佛再也看不见毁灭

不远处，颇章布达拉的金顶

是唯一的、竭力的闪耀

提醒你，坏空之罪与记忆有关

2023/9/12，拉萨

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