Lyric Times



The bane of lyric times—

none of us escape the plague.

In villages, love is a peach blossom,

time, a salve.

It takes a rural serenade

from lustrous heights

to rusty scraps

by absence, surrender, and silence.

It’s like taking a mutt’s tail for sable,

anticlimax.
Me? I can’t hold onto dreams.

Triumphs? None, beyond the day-to-day.

I only know this calloused heart suits

the chaotic chorus of fictions.

Mostly it’s covered in dust—

the remains of youth’s abandon and bluster.
I’ll tell you… all these years

the secret wounds continue to spread.

But, I can never find the right words to express it.




*




抒情时代



抒情时代的苦痛

只是一场无法避免的流行病

在小镇，爱情是小桃花

时间才是良药

它让一支乡村的小夜曲

从明亮的高处

回到锈落的局部

以缺席、退让、沉默

来获得狗尾续貂的忧伤
而我，无法坚持理想

也不能做到，充实之上

我只知道，粗粝麻木的心灵与之相匹配

而这嘈杂、纷乱的意想的合唱

更多的是落满灰尘

有少不更事的肆意和逞强
我承认，这么多年

暗疾和伤痛一直都在扩大

而我， 没有准确地叙述它