Translated by Xuan Yuan and Tim Lilburn

—for all the slaughter victims
I hear, I hear the flock of rain, crowing, rushing out of stirred

crowds of chaos and fright, sweeping past, laughing, roars of

laughter crashing into the Wailing Wall. Triumphant karma

holds a sharp blade in its mouth and slices the sigh into

pieces; one piece, two pieces, feathers flutter, dancing.

You emerge, among the whirling sleet.

The thing, the mortals can’t imagine arises. It’s time,

drops of white blood splash, the brightest blossom of solid snowflakes.

I see, I see your heart of great suffering swells up, up

till an angel thunders out, and he flexes up the roots

of his not-yet-familiar large wings, pressing against the gust

blowing from the gap in the heart, then bows his head to peck

such an immense petrified world with his sharp beak.

An already rigid You, giant sigh, stands upright, burning inside.

A fire wall, a wall of fire burns darkly and damply, smoking

whitely and bitterly, collapses and buries, buries the eternal sighs.