THE NON-PERSONAL SNOW

1

the snowfall is arid　　rushed　　imitates the enthusiasm of a person
brutish, dusky daylight
snow walks along the treetops with tiny claws

tiny skeletons
skeletons of glass refined by fierce fire

snow　　always stops
the moment it's still grating on the ear

as for death　　what can the dead still remember?
a body secretly sprinkled all silver
a thousand pregnant women giving birth in the sky
cold orphans still not given permission
a pink ladder of flesh　　leads to a tiny attic
a tiny attic of white night　　where corpses are kept

you don't exist　　so all year round you are snow-capped

2

the snowy ground is covered with blind men　　they can't see
the poem that died in the hotel
and　　the valleys that breed the fearsome sunlight

below the same precipices they lose their shadows
become thin black needles on the garden sundial
wash their feet in laughter

take pains to carve patterned vessels from a dead bird
drink deep at picnic time of the scarlet stream
noon　　the scarlet stream exuded by blind eyes

they can't see　　the tourists in the poem
lying naked in hotel beds
no need to fall　　to get to the depths of an avalanche

3

a little clay lamp　　is your present to darkness
in the clashing together of the sounds of the rain
the snow in your name is born
snow that engrains your body
pain　　releases flocks of birds shut up in stones for years
each one a word　　and you are wordless
the storm　　is a cemetery in the air above city roofs
angels too　　in the nest must lick their wounds
like golden-headed beasts kneeling on the olden days
a person revealed by water just has to follow the current
a snowfall is like music that goes down to death
you, when a name dies every day
expose a body that no-one can caress
let the sky feel
from snow to blood　　feel all over the flame
until darkness　　pays back some unknown person's time

4

night like a madman's thoughts　　knocks
on our skulls　　making us encounter
dangerous snow from a non-existent distance
like horses racing past a single peak beneath two stars
with the pricking of a nail buried in the summer night
hear ghosts laying the dust　　sweeping the moon
hear　　headstones tell lies　　flaunt the arts of living

we are all snow　　slipping downhill
innately non-personal and so squandering each person's death
night on the sickbed　　squanders vain hopes
as the village of madmen strums away
candles are undying　　bells sprinkle tears
on mountains and in fields white bones take off the mourning dress of our days
and　　we are frozen into one complete stone

5

this mountain valley can't be visited
just like inside you　　that attic of white night

when you're invited by the snow　　flowers and plants are a silence
field of vision　　like a glass of wine poured into darkness
burning in other places

when you're turned down by the snow　　you are colourless
a hawk roosting in a wound　　softly weeping sunlight
rock　　slowly swallows you
and your sex shines with a brilliance impossible after death

when you have become the only impossibility
a lifetime's snows have already fallen

in the attic of white night　　forceps tightly pinch
in the fragile dreams of birds　　the sky cheers heartlessly
sweet pears on girls' breasts　　fall into
the rainy season 　　the sound of rain　　chases you all over your insides
an utterly naked man is only a snowflake

spotless white underfoot in the valley　　glaring

a walk of a thousand years still hasn't crossed this room you aren't in

6

those who live in time know time isn't time
a rock is itself a poem
and shadow 　　engraved as a seat by a lake
weeds every June 　　read aloud here
snow 　　the silver-white book of the dead
and the brush of steel wire and coir is still stubbornly sweeping

a pair of muddy shoes of coffin wood
a set of paper handcuffs　　make the convict more terrified yet
these words　　go wrong when written down
words carved on cliffs　　ride on a runaway cable car
broken apart day after day
poets who leap into a poem deserve only to be broken apart

in an imagination more lifelike than death
snow is a once-only walk　　once and once only
June rots in chorus　　as the bodies of the dead ring bells
all men　　are ringing solitary bells that are fulfilled in this moment
dying more lifelike than in imagination
snow 　　has gone too far　　can't help burying everything