Watching Swallows from the Hall Doorway

This piece by Chen Xianfa is translated from Chinese into English by Martyn Crucefix and Nancy Feng Liang

Since ancient times, every swallow appears
to be the same one. Following lines sketched by themselves, 
they then disappear in a flash.

The drawn lines vanish,
yet they are not wholly erased, 
as all we lose
persists somewhere, out of sight, out of mind, 
still whole and boiling.

The springtime mud she carried up under the eaves 
shines with a rare metallic sheen
as the swallows try
to express something with their chaotic lines 
and as we speak too, though neither
has the power to convey a word 
into the other’s heart.

I think of the dark night’s infinite bookshelves 
of belated names. One alongside the other,
it is precisely because of their isolation 
that they crowd so snugly together.

In all those books, did the swallows ever cry?
Many years ago, I asked you 
the same question
and the sound of their crying shaped us.

Read more from Issue 21.2.