Recycle

I imagine reincarnation has a triangular symbol that looks like the one for recycling, sorting out souls by category like PET, PVC, PELD…; ordinary people can’t make heads or tails of it. However, once the boundary is crossed and poetry is on the other side, it all becomes something serious:

“Made in one piece with no seams but a dot at the bottom,
combustible, gives black soot and a sweet fragrance when burning.”
Who is it? The young man with a crew cut in the street?

“Won’t rustle upon rubbing; clingfilm easy to break, 
combustible, gives no black soot when burning,
smells like candles, with a yellow flame tip and a greenish heel.”
Who is it? The lover I betrayed twice, or the courier guy 
who will drop by tomorrow?

“Leaves a white crease after gentle folding
and something is spreading, combustible
with amber black soot, doesn’t go out even 
away from the fire source, softens after burning.”
Dear Mother, is that you?

A dark mezzo soprano throws a rope to her sisters.
The web of fate looks like a common children’s game.
Wagner wrote here, “From now on, sorrow becomes my song.”
Toys, video tapes, Yakult bottles, we become.
We throw ourselves at each other, receive each other
by swapping the plastic we have with whoevers come next for the plastic they have.

I imagine one day sitting in the same classroom with my high schoolmates like a box of transparent PET bottles waiting for the notorious King of Hell’s roll call (he wears the face 
          of some teacher 
by sampling from his imagination), dragging our soft malleable bodies, with bottle caps whispering to each other. Will we get together like this in sixty years?

Even the gods meet their doom.
The rivers are crawling armies of PET bottles.
Shiny trouts protrude now and then. Pilgrims 
take turns telling stories.
Please, thank you, sorry.

A twilight so blunt but pure—a dragonfly pauses—in the center of the body.

The last desire persists,
typical, simple—beautifully
taking four hundred fifty years to decompose the mirror and “I”.

translated from the Taiwanese Mandarin by Nicholas Wong

我想像輪迴有一個資源回收般的三角標誌
靈魂分種類如PET 、PVC、PELD……普通人
日常難以區辨。但一旦跨界，詩在另一邊
就成了重要的問題：

「一體成形沒有接縫，底部有一圓點
容易燃燒，燃燒時會有黑煙及芳香甜味。」
這是誰？是那個路上理著小平頭的年輕人？

「揉搓時不會發出沙沙聲；包裝膜
易撕開。容易燃燒，燃燒時沒有黑煙
有蠟燭味，火焰先端黃色下端青綠色。」
這是誰？是我曾背叛兩次的情人
還是明日將造訪的快遞員？

「輕折時有白痕出現
並有擴散現象。容易燃燒
有橙黃色黑煙，移離火源亦不熄滅
燃燒後軟化。」
親愛的母親，那是你嗎？

黑色的女中音
拋擲繩子給她的姊妹們。
命運的網像常見的兒童遊戲。
華格納在此寫到：「從今而後，憂愁成為我的歌。｣
玩具、錄影帶、養樂多瓶
我們成為
我們彼此拋接
用手上的塑膠和下一人交換他們手上的塑膠

我想像有一天與曾坐在同一間教室的
高中同學像一箱透明的保特瓶等著讓
名聲頗差勁的閻王點名（它順應想像採取
某教官的臉），拖著柔軟可扭轉的身體
瓶蓋與瓶蓋交頭接耳。六十年後我們會這樣相聚嗎？

諸神也有黃昏。
河水是匍匐前進的寶特瓶大隊
久久一次凸出閃亮的鱒魚。朝聖者
輪流說故事
請、謝謝、對不起

鈍而純的黃昏——蜻蜓地暫停——身中央

最後一種欲望非常持久
普遍、簡單——美麗地
花上四百五十年，分解鏡子與「我」