雙梨 A Pair of Pears

“A chilly draft from the world outside enters in;
we find ourselves close but not drawn closer in the bowl.
We might dissolve together into our single name,
back into the one kind of tree we are,
but we can’t reverse the seasons and return to the top branches.
We’ve bumped our peculiar shapes together in our bowl,
feeling the weight of days, like people meeting years later.
How to escape bitterness — we’re no longer sour-green!”

            “Is this singing I have from something like me,
            dreaming and not dreaming, and with dark seed-eyes
            that are so much myself I am afraid?
            You want my fresh perfections; what of my bitterness?
            We’re mirrors only a while, eventually not at all.
            I can’t live as your other, fitted to your curving surface.
            Not that I haven’t dreamed being with your sufficiency —
            but every time I do, we drift apart helplessly.”

“A chilly draft from the world outside enters in;
the dry autumn of the world enters in.
Only days after our life in the branches I turn to you,
your head pillowed on the rim of the bowl.
You won’t hear me, but I call: we were picked
from the same tree.  Your breath is my own.
It’s only our hearts’ singular juice
that saves us in the dry season.”

            “Everything around me drifts slowly away;
            everything passes and leaves me shadows;
            still I must resist being drawn outward, with all my might.
            The world’s noises must be my layers of silence;
            my skin is soft and blackening where I’m bruised
            and skin is all I have to keep from being ruined.
            I don’t want to spill helplessly.  Rather, let me be one
            in myself, our selves grown perfect by a certain negligence.” 



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Copyright © AIEL 2008. All words and images are the property of Leung Ping Kwan and his associates. All Rights Reserved.