Youthful Poems: Death

2006/6/13 16:07:07

While sorting through files, I stumbled upon some vernacular poems written over a decade ago in elementary and middle school — quite amusing. I'll organize them bit by bit. First, a collection on the theme of Death.

I

Farewell, this heartbreaking land — I shall board
the ship of Death, sailing merrily toward all unknown harbors.

There, every frozen soul embraces boundless darkness with abandon,
warming the vast heavens with its pitiful remnant of heat;
There, no fine feasts, only poisoned food and hemlock wine,
people savor endless Death, never fearing the arrival of Life.

There, what is there to fear?
People's sole possession is Death,
owning what they do not own, savoring what they do not savor,
finding eternal peace in shifting space and time.

Divine vessel of Death, hoist your perpetual sails,
and lead me joyfully toward that boundless paradise.

II

The bells ring out — so harmonious, so intoxicating,
as if a faint tremor from the depths of the soul,
the death knell of the Reaper, heralding eternity,
heralding a brand-new heaven and earth.

No need to panic, no need to fear,
Death's gentle hands close your eyes,
angels play celestial music, racing ahead,
the path to the netherworld blooms with intoxicating flowers.

Forget all the troubles and sorrows of this world,
your soul soars high into the clouds;
Cast off all the cravings and desires of the flesh,
your spirit dissolves into the entire universe.

Death — the eternal myth of a suffering life,
under your guidance, we transcend and sublimate.

III

I am retching, retching with abandon,
pouring out an endless life along with
hope's dirge, all at once.

I have grown thin, like a withered branch,
ceaseless grief has made me
an intimate companion of Death.

No tears, no laughter,
the soul has long been purged, and this husk
shall be Death's final feast.

Death — what is there to fear in Death?
It is merely a long journey, free of all sorrow.

IV

Death — this seed, innate, sown upon the heart by Heaven,
in Autumn, the season of ripening, bears — abundant fruit.

In Spring, this seed of Death slowly germinates,
tender sprouts green as the emerald eyes of ghosts;
Yet when Summer arrives, Death draws ruthlessly
from coursing veins the nectar of life, growing with vigor.

Now, at last it ripens — in Autumn, Death
like an overripe apple, red enough to break the heart.
The fertile soil in which it took root, that heart once brimming with blood and vigor,
has long turned pale and feeble, like a yellow leaf shivering in the autumn wind.

At last, harsh Winter descends, and Life and Death
together enter that boundless silence.

V

Naked, you step from life's first cradle,
and at once face a pallor and a stillness,
all so illusory, so ethereal —
another world, alien and impermanent.

Clothed in white, you walk into roaring flames,
in an instant turned to ash — body and spirit scattered,
all you experienced, so distant now,
as if it had never happened yet is forever gone.

The cycle of life, the farce of the human world,
mercilessly toying with every bewildered soul.