10. Solitude of Queenstown - 杰
the solitude of Queenstowntranslated by PLS1sunrise behind you, in the middle of an autumnupon an unknown tree, one leaf, sometimes half green half redsometimes fully green, you never know, which is its true colourmost trees are left with few leaves, dangling on the tips of brancheslike wind chimes dancing at the edge of the eave, so often so close to being lured away by windyou never know if it’s out of their own belief, or fate, they are still gyratingunder the branches, making pretty sounds—the sounds entangled with dusty wind, floating onno set directions, meaning the direction is everywheregoing everywhere and having nowhere to go, may both be considered freedomif they still return after all the travelling, those leaves, perhaps had their own destination long ago it is through these twists and turns, they have met some kind peopleoffering some goodness to the arid land, witnessing the villagers’ sufferingthey live full of hope, yet do not really understand fatebut those who know a thing or two about fate, can’t live properly2the wintry cold, has its own structurenot sure if it’s the cold wind that slaps me, or me who barges into the interior of a gust, disturbing its will for winteri’ve stared at the sky before a winter day turns to nighthalf moon, one side a clear arc, the other sfumatoed by misty cloudssurrounded by a clear halo, looking up from where i am (if that height means the sky) as if through a neat crevice in the dark veil, disclosing its inquisitive, honest eyesit’s difficult to know, whether it’s my stare that probes it, or itself that has been probing the land I stand upon all alongafter all it understands the night and winter better, the solitude of Queenstown on this land3as the temperature drops, it starts snowing atop the mountainsmaintaining the wintry prestige is the responsibility of every mountain, it’s been like this, the tradition is older than the mountainsonly the sound of wind chimes that passes, can then through a few detours, tell the people under the mountains: there’s only solitude of the snow high upif the snow envelops the whole mountain, when the sound passes by, it will be frozen, unable to reach the next stop, the higher heightand only the Wakatipu Lake at the foot of the snow mountain, can stand the new weight of the snow mountainstand the scream of every snowflake as they crack, stand the spring as they meltstand me, stand you—you are, the snow that never reaches my doorwhere you lie is the depth of my eyes, one winter then you’ll leavelike many who have come to skate, who would’t stay forever with what they love, and would’t stay only with themthe sound of wind chimes has turned into my sinuous longing, that passes by the height you never reachand returned to where i am again, returned to leaf—this is the resurrection of one winter and many wintersthis is the twisting obediencethis is the solitude of Queenstown
