wounded by convictions, he came from August
a mother's perilous love
stolen away by a mirror
he's sideways between the rhinoceros and politics
like a fissure separating epochs
o conspirators, I'm nothing now
but a common wanderer
walking the cavernous museum's chessboard
trading places with strangers
great passion's never outdated
but our visits require secrecy
suddendly I feel the ache of strings
you're tuning, play me a song
somewhere predators haven't risen into our history
Bei Dao, Forms of Distance, David Hinton (trad.), New Directions Books, 1994.
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