Written by my father, translated by me
I live here on paint and on toxoid
My step faltering, against walls, against barriers
Around me I see nature destroyed
Replaced by some structures for settlers.
I live here with no joy, no regret
And scribble little rhymes just for me
I live... No longer preach at the gate,
Nor squash any ants carelessly.
In their hiding place they seem to await
And observe me, in all probability.
I live with no account and no friend
No longer try to right wrongs in the world,
I cannot tell my future, my end
Simply listen to the waves, to my heart.
At set, prescribed times I just swallow
Pills encoded by various pigments
And let my mind labor to follow
The secret paths of this universe.
It is clear to me now: There is no amity
There has never been any beginning,
And all that is here, that is growing
Was here and it always will be.
In space there is no upper or lower
No right and no left all around,
The moment is here—no past, no forever
There is no first, no last or well-found.
Only an unending, unstoppable flow
And shapes that are shifting at will
There is no heaven, only hell and owe
There is time, there is space, there is still.
There is no happiness, no sorrow, no feeling
Only waves dancing without and within
In a struggle with no hatred, no foaming
Without saints, without angels or sin.
So call this entirety: Yin.
I chose my charcoal drawing, which I drew to the sound of music, to accompany this profoundly wonderful poem by my father. The poem is included in my book, Home. Take a listen to the beautiful narration:
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