Trains, rushing above these erecting pillars

Molded with the grizzling sand,

Gasping loudly between the trees of medlars,

Grasping time’s fleeting thread.

The rumbling wheels carried an eager soul                                                                                                             

Which was destined to flee from itself.

Eventually, would he be blocks of coal,

Constellations, or the relics[1] of life?

Trains, howling upon the glistening stones,

Heaps of bloody soil, and bodies of men.                                                                                                              

You can hear no sound of morning, for their bones,

Lie in the shadows of the blooming glen[2].

The corrupting daffodils along the broken fields,

Commemorates the vital souls of many.

Iridescent petals beneath the pitch-black veils—                                                                                                       

The dead ashes from chimneys[3].

Bungalows beneath these cemented skies,

Ran into, and out of, our vision, we did not

See the tractors hum nor hear the children cry.

How many golden lives did we swiftly run by?                                                                                                                                 

Those who stand at where abundancy lies,

Know not the pain of the laborious strives.

Drown in the woe of unfortunate plights,

We saw the weeping tears of human strife.

What was in this air that people breathe?

Triste tears with dark clouds engaged.

What has been born from this land of peace?

Wars were waged and men enraged.

Nurtured by milk and blood hyacinth-red[4],

Armies galloped through the turfs of dusty maze.                                                                                                                

Peasants tilling their emerald bed,

Were torn by swaying swords for their sinful praise.

Peach blossoms and the burning blood—

Rouge pearls on the piercing grass.

The sleeping weald finally began to bud

Roses of sang from the forgotten mass.

We saw scars on the barren mountains[5],

Scars that furnished the king’s golden throne.

The snaring wounds of the keenest intents,

Wounds that dug deep trenches in stones.                                                                                                  `                     

Where is their beauty and formidable shape?

A heap of broken pebbles under the stream.

Past ambitions left no trace,

Drowning honors infused the languid gleams[6].

We stood in the valleys, hoping to reach,

The pale clouds and the overhanging stars.

Beneath, the impassive river[7] breeds

Flocks of cotton and scattered games.

Alive! I roamed the ancient streets[8],

Like tumbling catkins along the hazel walls.                                                                                                                       

The lavish decorations[9] did not meet,

My finicky nature, for beauty which calls.

Plastic beams arched between the clouds.

Modern paints tainted strokes of the past.

Buddha statues glowed in glittering armors[10].

Fluttering red flags pierced into wall’s cemented heart.

Fourmillante cité![11] With your modern masques,

The unsubstantiated devoirs fall on you.

But for your designed history, people sacrificed,

Their homes, abducted by the hunter’s ruse.                                                                                                                                  

You have created your past in the present.

And made your present a thing of the past.

Your city, a doll to be dressed and made,

Will she grow old, wearing a falsified masque?

What is being hindered? The unpaved paths,

And scattering glass, hidden beneath

The broken ramparts of the desolate house.

Church bells rang along the wafting breeze.[12]

There, in the flowing air, we felt free,

So we headed west in the fierce summer heat.                                                                                                                                

The beating had offered us no shelter,

We saw halves of houses, in bushy welters.

The torn calendar, rusty bowls, and tables uncleaned,

Buried in the scattered rocks and blanc pieces of walls.

Flashing seeds of broken bulbs, like stars that gleam,

The sorrow lights of unspeakable pain when darkness calls.

Tall grass clutched the soil in this artificial silence[13],

And dug deep trenches in their vasty field.

Tractors and bulldozers’ jarring violence,

Meadows and leaves should not conceal.                                                                                                                                       

Jade mosses ran along the gritty bricks,

Fed with merciful tears on this land of drought.

But Maria, her garden of roses and tulips,

Was as red as the flames that enfer had sought.

Paradis artificiels [14]upon the archaic ramparts,

Rooted in the dust of the immortal ruins.

Decorated with the cherry-pink lanterns,

Abided by the clouds—the fickle phantoms.

The clouds of dusk, burning with mystic fires,

Lighted up ebbing violets around the grove.                                                                                                                                   

Creamed cakes smoothly caressed my lips[15],

Intoxicating and delirious like a dazzling kiss,

I have dreamed of the shivering green nights,

On the dark rooftops, fell petals of snow.

The loving angel plays his enchanting lyres,

Swallows, as white as doves, surround the temple,

Their feathers rising to the eyes of the rivers

Stretching, amidst the heart of the light,

Across the blue drapes like reins of rainbows,

Glimmering in this rapturous delight.                                                                                                                                           

Waves, I bathe in your souring foams.

In the depth, I was protected from the bitter

Sun, by eternal spinners of azure immobility,

Devoured by intoxicating torpor.

Hawthorns, falling from the ember trees.

The gnarled roots rot in the rushes.

Deceased fruits, heading towards the abyss.

Dark soil was stirred by violent gushes.

Crescent moon, atrocious, joined with delight

Into the dark void, where the spirits shine.                                                                                                            

Death bequeathed me her unillumined might

To live, and sleep in the fragmented time.

(2024.6.11 Datong, Shanxi Province, China)

[1] Relics, a part of the very body of the Buddha himself.
[2] There are many tombs along the Datong railroads.
[3] Datong had once been one of the major coal-producing cities of China. The local pollutive coal power plants still generates electricity for Beijing and other cities nowadays. For analogies of pollution, see following sentences: “…dark clouds engaged…”
[4] Milk, an important produce of the grassland culture. In this sentence, it is combined with Blood to stress the violence of the numerous wars in Datong’s history.
[5] Scars: The Yungang Caves, first built by Emperor Wencheng to secure his throne.
[6] Most of the statues in the Yungang Caves were eroded by flowing waters.
[7] The Yu River.
[8] Many “ancient” buildings in Datong were actually built in 2008 under the orders of mayor Yanbo Geng. His action of rebuilding has destroyed many archaic remnants and replaced them with modern buildings in ancient styles.
[9] The modernized snack street.
[10] Modern chemical colors were used to repair the ancient Buddha statues, thereby distancing them from their original appearances.
[11] Charles Baudelaire, Les Sept vieillards :

« Fourmillante cité, cité pleine de rêves,
Où le spectre en plein jour raccroche le passant!
……

Un matin, cependant que dans la triste rue
Les maisons, dont la brume allongeait la hauteur,
Simulaient les deux quais d'une rivière accrue,
Et que, décor semblable à l'âme de l'acteur

…… »
[12] The desolate parking lot near the Datong Catholic Church.
[13] Many common people in Datong sacrificed their own lands for the reconstruction of Geng’s “ancient city”. Some were even brutally enforced by the government to move out of their houses. However, ever since the reconstruction was complete, voices against the government’s actions were never heard again. The city’s officials had created an “artificial silence” for their opponents while allowing praises to prevail.
[14] French: « Les paradis artificiels » (The artificiel heavens).
[15] Birthday Party of SDSZ on the recreated city wall of Datong.