Bad.
Myth
What's wrong with the temple?
What's wrong with the years?
The memory of spices is soft.
We've heard too much about immortality.
Don't look down on anonymous gods.
It's often got unlimited power.
Enough to control villages without primary schools
The apartment with the gunman on guard.
It's good at making.
Peachwood sword, Pitanga and a new spell for all time.
As a controlled god.
It doesn't swallow all the boys and virgins in the sun.
It invited me to the dead to taste its saliva on full moon night.
Promise me I'll start from the old paper pile.
Century
But what am I?
What does a bookman take against a ruler or a anklet?
Since 20 egomaniacs were hanged publicly in the square.
I learned to paint a symbol like David's Star.
Bite your teeth tight, and patiently guard the people's contempt and
Tough.
Poet profile.
Chen Gyu Li
The power of 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.
Edit
The temple is silent, but its powers are so vast, moving between the most primitive or coercive forests. The myths that have sharpened your ears continue to be glorified, and the power of the years and centuries has given it unquestioned.
Every single act, like a pious act, the Book, and the Prost, is a sublime subservient to it, and every word that is recited is a sign of horror to it.
It enjoys unchallenged sustenance, and its fat belly is so fat that it can come out with gold. But it is not content for the offerings of fresh, humble and humble.
It requires the taste of young boys and girls, the slaughter of life and the sweet blood of young children. It is inexhaustible in greed, yet every soul listens to the words it has left at its will.
The booksman said what he took against the seals and shackles. Moreover, everyone voluntarily imprisoned themselves and swallowed the key.
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
The Myth of the Disqualified
What sins do temples bear?
What fault lies in tree rings clear?
Of fragrant memories, they're but tender
Of immortality, we've heard without end.
Don't ever mock the gods unknown
Their power can't easily be overthrown.
Enough to rule the village with no school's song
And guarded apartments, standing strong.
Masters in crafting, oh, so profound
Peachwood swords, human tapestries around
And spells that time can't confound.
A god of restraint, not bound by greed
Doesn't devour every maiden and steed.
Invited to the graveyard, under the moon's glow
Promising a century, if I follow its echo.
But who am I in this ancient tale's flow?
How can a bard fight against chains or blow?
Ever since the hubristics were hanged in the square
I've learnt to wear symbols, with caution and care.
Gritting my teeth, enduring our tribe's glare
Guarding their crudeness, their raw despair.
from: Bastien-Lepage
Deutsche Version
Disqualifizierter Mythos
Was hat der Tempel falsch gemacht?
Was haben die Jahresringe verbrochen?
Erinnerungen an Gewürze sind zart
Über Unsterblichkeit haben wir oft gesprochen.
Verachte nicht den unbekannten Gott
Seine Macht ist grenzenlos, glaub mir.
Er regiert Dörfer ohne Schulen
Und Wohnhäuser mit bewaffneten Wachen dabei.
Er ist ein Meister im Herstellen
Von Pfirsichholzschwertern, menschlichen Thangkas, alten Zaubersprüchen.
Als ein gemäßigter Gott
Verschlingt er nicht alle Jungen und Mädchen im Licht.
Er lädt mich ein, in der Vollmondnacht zu kommen
Verspricht, dass ich aus alten Papieren starte und ein ganzes Jahrhundert rette.
Aber wer bin ich?
Was kann ein Geschichtenerzähler gegen einen Lineal oder Fußfessel tun?
Seitdem zwanzig Narzissten öffentlich auf dem Platz gehängt wurden
Habe ich gelernt, Sterne wie David zu zeichnen
Meine Zähne fest zusammenbeißen, geduldig das Vulgäre und das Störrische meiner Leute bewachen.
from: Rembrandt
Version française
Mythe Disqualifié
Pourquoi la faute du temple?
Pourquoi celle des anneaux d'âge?
Les souvenirs d'épices, ils sont doux et souples
D'immortalité, nous en avons trop entendu à chaque étape.
Ne sous-estimez pas le dieu anonyme
Sa puissance est vaste, sans mesure
Dominant villages sans écoles, tours pleines de gardes armés
Il maîtrise les épées en bois de pêcher, les thangkas en peau humaine, et les sorts qui durent.
Dieu modéré, il ne dévore pas tous les jeunes sous le soleil
Il m'invite à goûter sa salive lors d'une nuit de pleine lune
Promettant un retour d'un siècle, depuis un tas de vieux papiers.
Mais qui suis-je face à tout cela?
Que peut le conteur face à une règle ou un bracelet?
Depuis que vingt arrogants furent pendus en public
J'ai appris à dessiner des symboles semblables à l'étoile de David
Je serre les dents, défendant patiemment la grossièreté et l'obstination de ma tribu.
from: John Millais