On death and dying, translated…
The rains, they’d not come as much as past years. Every time it’d rained, the smell of the rain, got into the air, cut me off from my concentration.
The rainy seasons.
The sights that were burned by the sun, became the multilayered dimensions under the rain.
The sounds of the rain.
The sounds of the rain pouring down put out the calls of the cicadas, the barks of the stray dogs, and they focused on pouring down hard, wet my poetry too.
The scenes in the rain.
It’d made me realized my three-dimensional, the me that’s currently breathing, not the me that’s, wandered off. The space I’m in, the lungs that were filled and emptied, the wild lilies that bid farewell to their stamens, with their colors brighter now.
Only a sudden onset of rain can achieve this. The sun’s rays made all of these too matter-of-fact, in the eastern side of this island, with a lot of sunshine, he was the collective of the dark clouds gathering up in the skies; the foot of the clouds hiked over the Central Mountain Range, gathered enough precipitation, with its full stomach, arrived to the plains, then, suddenly, the rumbling, and let it all out, made this, seemingly, extra-ordinary thunderstorm.
The timings of rain.
The rain became stationary in that sense of time. The heavens, earlier, already, lifted up the curtains of rain, drenched those on the western side of the mountains. We start falling, in the time zone differences of the rain.
On my way to the café, the rain hit the twenty-three ribs of a city in Hubei. One of ribs had fallen and gotten lost on the roads, and it’d sung loud in the pouring rain.
And, this is very imaginative, there’s that sense of freshness that this writer gave to death and dying, and the rain symbolized the renewal from death, of how things still keep on going, as deaths are happening, all around where we live right now.