Summer's all over the world.
After noon.
The epiphany of the fumigation.
A few people bite the food of others.
One hand stretches to the dashboard, trying to condensate time.
Time seems to be condensing.
It's been a long time.
It's the sky.
What's behind the pupils of the storm?
It's becoming clear that we've been waiting too hard for each other.
Except for rejection of degraded code and good names.
I'm empty-handed, and even the will to run is a luxury.
Four seasons of change is minimal heroism.
You only danced because you made a sword with a pen.
Move your feet under the stars.
Poetry shared today comes from Chen's "Fashion of the Summer" piece, which was created about three years ago, with a very high level of tension and madness in the pen, reminiscent of the dreary and melancholy end-of-season atmosphere: violent degenerative spirits, the end-of-the-day tone of the storm, the tight seasons, the will to effect change...
We're trapped in the summer.
Can't or won't?
The pupils of the storm.
Looking at what?
The courage of a sword with a pen.
What kind of heroism is that?
Poet profile.
Chen Gyu Li: The power to write poetry has been suppressed and censored, and tends to be unstoppable. It was called by the ancient sages, and now it is ready to call. It's lit by drama and lit by drama. It competes with images and goes to freedom. It blooms and melts the ice of the language in order to awaken it.
Yes, write poetry.
At the same time, we provide translations of the poem in English, German and French and maintain the original style and rhythm of the poem to the maximum extent possible.
Readers can also feel the unique and commonality of the poem in different linguistic contexts.
English Version
In the afternoon, the floating soil
Awakened by the damp and suffocating air
Some people tearing at others' food
While they fiddle with the dials, hoping to freeze time
Time seems to freeze in place
Roofed corners always reach high
The sky hanging low overhead
What secrets hide behind stormy eyes?
We've waited too long for each other, painfully so
Only the whispers of resistance and the sweetest names remain
I stand here with nothing, even the will to run is a luxury
The cyclical change of seasons the barest form of heroism
But you wield your pen like a sword, dancing fiercely
In solemn strides beneath the starry sky.
Deutsche Version
Nachmittags im schwebenden Staub
Entschluss von Dunst umhüllt
Einige beißen in das Essen anderer
Während sie an der Uhrzeit drehen
um die Zeit einzufrieren
Die Zeit scheint eingefroren zu sein
Die Dachkanten sind hoch
Tief ist der Himmel
Hinter den Augen der Stürme
Was versteckt sich dort?
Es wird immer deutlicher, dass wir einander zu lange warten lassen haben
Nur geheime Worte und schöne Namen bleiben, um den Verfall zu verweigern
Ich habe leere Hände und selbst der Wille zum Laufen scheint luxuriös
Die vier Jahreszeiten wechseln, ein Minimum an Heldentum
Denn du tanzst mit einem Stiftschwert
Feierlich unter dem Sternenhimmel wandernd.
Version française
L'après-midi de terre flottante
La révélation dégagée par l'humidité
Quelques personnes mordent la nourriture des autres
Tout en tournant les aiguilles de la montre, espérant figer le temps
Le temps se fige apparemment
Les toits volants sont toujours altiers
Le ciel est couvert
Les pupilles des tempêtes cachent quelque chose?
Graduellement, nous avons tous attendu trop longtemps l'un pour l'autre
Sauf des paroles secrètes pour refuser de dégénérer et de beaux noms
Je suis les mains vides, même la volonté de courir me semble luxueuse
Le changement des saisons est un minimum d'héroïsme
Juste parce que tu utilises ta plume comme une épée pour danser
En déplaçant fermement tes pas sous les étoiles.
It's about a summer end in memory.
About the upcoming unformed summer end
What are your impressions and expectations?
It may smell of humid water mist from indoor air-conditioning, and the sweetness that characterizes the soil on foot, calms to the extent that the surface of the condensed sea is evaporated after exposure to high temperatures
Or overstretched and then fallen, glued to the cricket juice
(a) Unrealistic waiting for a rain and the desire to be killed or aroused in the autumn, accompanied by the unprovoked disappearance of people in the summer
……