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Has Lin not come?

Last month, he left to study in Tokyo.

This is the painter Fukui Keiichi.

He has just returned from Tokyo.

This is Zhang Liang-dian.

He goes to medical school in Taipei.

Now, Li, Ota,

please, have a seat.

Three

Two

One

《風車3》 ，1934 Le Moulin 3, 1934

Lin Xiu-er,

Zhang Liang-dian,

Shimamoto Teppei,

Toda Fusako,

Kishi Reiko.

What is poetry?

We cut down symmetry and combine, that's how poetry is made.

This is the secret of the poet's esprit.

I close my eyes

to see the silent things...

The wonders that arise in my dreams.

Spinning peach-colored sweetness...

Spring clings to the broken memories

like a flurried mind in a dream.

Blue balloon

floats below the sun.

I am always walking around.

This blurred scene...

Pleasant people laugh loudly:

pretended pleasantness.

A sin made with their screaming laughter

trails beneath the rainbow.

And still I'm always walking by.

On this hill

the shadows of balloons are everywhere;

I walk in silence...

If I make a sound,

my inner world

surely will rouse the outside world!

The world of reality is nothing but the brain. The aim of surreal art is to defeat this brain.

Poetry creates a vacuum-desert in the brain;

then through striking sensation, sentiment, ideas that exist in reality could purify the brain.

This is one method.

To Lin Xiu-er

Sometimes the Taiwan Daily News

publishes specialty reviews.

Here, Nishikawa Mituru's influence

was strongly felt.

Tainan Daily News was in a slump once,

but recently it shows signs of rebirth.

Contributors have formed a tight group,

and I think it is wonderful.

One of these writers

is Shuiyin Ping (Yang Chi-chang).

We are close friends,

and this bond keeps me from commenting on him.

But let's look forward to

what will come of his work.

Sometimes in a pipe.

I see dreams of vivid blue beans:

a skylark making a nest of shells.

This is intellect's bohemian;

it can be said.

With pipe in mouth I walk to a field.

The skylark's nest was not a shell.

Literary intellect is not within this nature.

Sitting in the middle of a grass field

pouring liquor of moonlight

there's no literary intellect.

However,

I know this imagination is but

one of intellect's extraordinary forms.

In the world of thoughts

hidden intellect awaits its unearthing.

Sparks flying from burning eyes are the poet's esprit. "Burning Hair" becomes the festival of poesy...

Shuiyin Ping, you are now traveling among

the cherry blossoms in Japan.

Raised as a man of Taiwan

How joyous it is for you.

Your first journey in Japan.

What you see, what you hear,

strain your fine nerves.

What a beautiful poet you are -

you revere Dadaism

and you seek the depths of

Surrealism without stop.

But, my dear Shuiyin Ping,

our crude lives grow more difficult

and so as our higher thoughts

turn to a deepening tomorrow,

novel and poetry

should be like wearing jackets inside-out,

and then we can publish them.

In your poetry, something undeniably new

comes through in your expressions.

Under the reign of

sentimental verse of Naturalism,

It was you who didn't look away

but grasped a new poet's motivations

via active, analytical inner life.

Indeed, we wonder at

your unsparing efforts

to refine the originality,

the creativity of this method.

Shuiyin Ping, how was Tokyo?

Many years ago, in Ginza

I met Ryutan Jiyu and Iwato Yukio.

Thanks to them I earned admission to Bunka Gakuin.

Oh, I see.

Yes.

Ah, yes. Hold on.

Here.

Marcel Proust - Marcel Proust!

Oh, right.

Here, look at this.

I see.

Here is a pure poem.

The brain becomes like ultra-peach-colored glass.

And the poem destroyed the brain in this way.

The destroyed brain is scented;

like a destroyed tank of perfume.

A poem from Opera by Jean Cocteau, read by the author:

"The child takers"

Almost naked and suddenly emerging

From a trap of mud and nettles,

The gypsy, on behalf of the circus,

Steals the son of a count.

While his mother calls,

Wild, standing on the path,

The child, at the top of the ladder,

Was learning how to fly in the circus.

It is possible to fly at any age;

The circus is a kite.

On its fabrics, on its ropes,

The child takers fly.

The taken, the takers have wings

At night behind the embankment

Where the cries of a mother

Are not even heard anymore.

《詩與詩論》 Poetry and Poetic Theory

〈新文學的精神〉 "The Spirit of New Literature"

The clocks were

amphibians that rose from the lake.

The globe is now

caught with an intense nostalgia.

In the midst of a historic sunset,

people embrace

A flock of starved, timid sparrows,

a fearful 20th century body,

swoop into the great spectacle.

The tail of smoke

like a detached conversation

risks blossoming and death

The desert's head

void crawled upon combed lines.

The barometer chased a dream

without blinking.

The tongue of wind

The forever clear cobalt sky

Snapping at

your painting

In an ancient poster

the words doze like little pebbles

The gallop of feathers

hijacks the conversations of threads

and beasts.

Like human echoes

endlessly burning a silk hat

and the flames

received like ABC

on the night of a lovely lunar eclipse,

silhouettes smiled.

A move from Paris, Fontaine, number 42

Just then, it's pouring in Nice; oh, mon Dieu

You and you go opposite directions

Strange ways of speaking in the world...

It is said people worry about being burned

Finally who has arrived, but, oh, the yellow smile

《衣裳的太陽》 The Sun of the Clothes: l'evolution surrealiste

Separation of established forms of ideas

is inevitably becoming one method

in the new genre of poesy.

These appear as new forms of expression.

Here we have Breton,

Lautreamont,

Eluard,

Jean Cocteau,

Goll,

Mallarme,

And Stein...

foreign poets' theories of poetry

that have created great works.

Their esprit nouveau

has become the dominant dialectics

and illuminates a new era of Japanese poetry.

Théâtre de l'Odéon

Théâtre Sarah Bernhardt (Ballets Russes)

Salon des Tuileries

Two tickets are the trolley pass

Louvre

Catacombe (Also translates as "Skull Cave")

Cirque d'hiver (A famous circus)

A straw bag of a café near Champs-Élysées

Since the release of Rene Clair's

Under the Roofs of Paris

it was surprising to see

more hunting caps in Ginza,

and 60% of the young men

walk around wearing casquette.

These casquette boys whistle songs

from the film while they wander around.

Everyone is surprised at this.

A friend of mine said

"It's the summer's fault."

The avant-garde gather in the basement of Mitsukoshi

with proud poverty and cultivated cheapness,

they managed to sharpen their interests

instead of refining their tastes.

After flunking my entrance exam,

I wandered about in Tokyo,

I sensed their zest from the table in Ginza

and delicate, complex poetic-emotion

in elocution, or elan vital.

Loftiness is the blossom of clarity.

The flower measured the city standards

A wavelength of charm through tobacco smoke

and a pure white dress stabilized the drumming breasts.

I fumbled with a blue menu

The unique symphony is the melancholia of beaten lips

Grade Osaka

On the white terrace of Brasilerio the angel isn't garrulous

She walked through the door at "Colombin,"

quietly fingered the white carnation on my collar,

then drank the cold coffee I ordered.

Severing final ties under the stars of Ginza and to Hokkaido

she went into a Trappist Monastery.

Maybe, the woman "Michi,"

judging from my name,

has an interest in me,

a stranger from the "South" of Taiwan.

Unlike those women of olden times

who held their balance in their knees

when they walked,

"Michi" held her weight in her waist

like European women when she walked.

This made her poise chic and dynamic.

Her high heels made her body something attractive,

and it proved the value of

modern society's intellectualism.

Of all things adorning her body,

what is the most radical

pleasure and beauty among modernity?

Paving stones of a sleeping city

echoed the ocean in the heart of shells

In the shadow of a bare sycamore,

your white beret composed several lines of verse.

In front of a grim white wall

the women strike at typewriters

sending letters to all the offices of the world

concerning a meaningless,

dried out hat, a cocoon, tea, or a bag.

For these the girls hurt their beautiful fingertips.

Therefore, these young women

shut their love away completely

into the wall,

and they are eroded away by millions of

insect-like words...

Fragrance of magnolia,

Sun's fierce shining,

ancient city in the South, Tainan's early spring.

Though our Moulin is young,

it has its volume "3."

"Tainan, the town of forgetting art"

This is how we call it.

It is our greatest shame.

We surely know this.

Our Moulin spins across the city.

We show the tiny traces left of our efforts,

and rip our hearts open,

we find a way to speak to each other.

I saw these two films,

Dietrich's Song of Songs and

Garbo's Grand Hotel,

at Sekaikan in Taiwan for the first time

after returning from Tokyo.

But I plainly gave up

watching Western films in Taiwan.

Hasty though it was I wonder

how much I wanted it that way.

Still, this fact -

it is still something beyond our ability...

Oh, what a truly sad thing that would be.

These poems of late, delicate as roses,

found here and there from our Taiwan literati,

- though still few in number -

appear to flushed imaginations

as women's breasts through thin,

taut silk appear to straining young boys.

These boys pay lip service to the rose poets

while they make passionate statements

about how they yearn for emotional prose.

You, rose poets,

we find neither a pulse nor a heartbeat

in your verses

and in those poems you admire.

We sense only the ornamental,

insubstantial tools of beauty

in these compositions of words.

The thriving and animate world,

in your poems,

is increasingly distant.

Is this, ultimately,

what's meant for poetry?

On the desk

a pen and cheap cigarettes

framed picture of a young woman

face down, in deep thought

a Victrola plays for a while

a tune of Bolero?

I pull the blanket

and fall asleep deeply

Artistic expression in Japanese!

In our future this is the most effective

and our only weapon to exercise.

Although what we have made is only imitation

in form and pattern,

Already we have made progress.

And so we shall carry on,

separate the chaff from the wheat.

Until our works earn their place

in the Japanese literary canon,

However, we will neither discard our Taiwanese grain

nor forsake the climate that nourished it.

A cream-colored room

I quietly hatch a dream's cream-colored egg

there is a zebra in the window.

Silver waves of grass on rolling hills. Red roof. Crimson persimmon.

Heaven fades far, far away.

The problem of language in Taiwanese literature

is urgent

While Korean journals and

the Korean literary establishment

were founded in the Korean language,

the Japanese language

has dominated Taiwan journals over our vernacular tradition.

What should be done?

Soon, Taiwanese vernacular writing

will be wiped out,

with only Japanese surviving?

If this truly happens, Japanese localist literature

should become our goal.

Murder of the arts -

first we had to fight against this tragedy.

Once a year, the painting exhibition

that may or may not be held...

Even our so-called "newspaper,"

our supposed field has discriminated against it,

and claimed it is "journalism."

But we should not label "newspapers" as sin.

What we hope is that people could cast their eyes

on the artists

as they strive to attain

the distinction of art.

I believe it would be of great benefit

for such men to gather into a club

to continue with these endeavors.

After all, aren't fine results attained

only after serious criticism?

Shuiyin Ping and I seek new romance on one night

along Ginza's canal district promenade.

Our books are our canes.

When we tired,

we walked into the "Morinaga" box

or sometimes "TOYODA" corner

to rest our legs.

We sip from a cup of black tea.

Smoke of jasmine

erases agony from our faces.

We have neither tears nor laughter.

We wander on streets day after day.

This could be on narrow country roads as well.

Then with alcohol and nicotine

and Barbital and romance

and adventure and misfortune

and Yes! With only these, surely,

there is no shortage in youth.

Romance won't come from

Hamlet's idleness

When tobacco becomes aspirin for my emotions,

beautiful smile from palm leaves disappears.

Smothered cigarette butts and matches.

Meal is ready.

The sun fills the island.

Sounds of bananas and songs of buffalo

and the ocean breeze and the sound of the surf

pour through my window bringing dreams of a cactus;

the stars reflecting on silver sand

whisper a halo on a watermelon's back;

the island's beggars,

singing secular songs at dusk with a yueqin,

searching for silver and copper coins.

When all the transparent smiles come,

I throw a book to the ceiling.

I suppose these beautiful angels

are messengers of poesy.

Crystal poet is on the crystal balcony

He wears the crystal glasses and sees the tower's solemn

woman manipulated by a wise magician

with moonlight and salt water

The pure and wise magician is the pure and calm poet

Did you see the crystal poet?

The day of drying loofa

turns purple through eyeballs

while sounds come from gloves and coffee.

Songs from seashells and music of peas

echo into the sky -

the poet rises, whistling.

He thinks the catapult posture

could call up a storm.

In this dream of warmth

a calmed storm draws out a sigh.

Someone is atop the mist-covered bell tower...

A prostitute dead from exposure to cold... A clear sound wave obstructed by a violet...

Light playing off steel rods and murmurs of exhaustion

The echoes of a settled morning The beats of a heart...

致水蔭萍同仁 ，北園克衛贈 ， 昭和9年3月 To Shuiyin Ping, from Kitasono Katsue, March, Showa 9 (1934)

You're interested in this, right?

You can read colloquial Taiwanese, right?

A few days ago, local Taiwanese founded an organization

called the Taiwanese Literature Federation;

but I didn't see you there.

I was at work,

and in any case I wasn't invited.

What have you written recently?

Have you started a novel yet?

Yes, I have. But there's nothing worth showing to anyone.

Shouldn't writing, at its heart, be for other people to read?

Fighting for Japanese Literature with people of this island!

By turns fiery and frigid

Our will is of pearl

It changes buds and blossoms not with hours

but with

the hands and the eyes that we know not ours.

The dawn from the fierce blizzard

absorbed the moonlight of seven nights.

Music and paintings and poetry's tides

are the sound of angel footsteps

My ideal composition is

the sounds of Picasso's guitar

The ennui of twilight and of seashells

The music of Picasso's cross

thoughts of flesh, dreams of white,

the ballet of flesh...

The depravity of the liquid white.

The thought that arises after my third tobacco pipe

slips into a single black glove —

The farther poetry moves away from reality,

the further it settles into a pure, unadulterated form...

Only those who expand poems are poets, not those who love poems...

Greedily I'm reading several issues

of Literary Art and Literature of Mita

that I took home from your place.

Half a year has gone since I've arrived at Xinhua

but I have not read anything new.

To be honest, I haven't been studying at all.

When I see all those new issues

stacked on your shelves

I shudder!

I'm re-reading

Bergson's Mind-Energy.

I recommended this book to you before;

It is French philosophy

which shows ideals through senses.

I don't understand it all that well

but I'm doing my best.

Niigaki Koichi claims,

"Literature is the exclusive possession of a few,"

we protested against this fact,

demanding that literature be returned to the masses.

If Niigaki emphasizes "Art for art's sake,"

as does Akutagawa Ryunosuke,

I would advise that

we heed these words with caution.

He who believes literature to be a demon

will become a demon himself.

And so we have to

pull this demon

from the ivory tower, and shock him

with the realization that

he is not demonic but human.

If we make him stand on street,

he will understand what life is,

what art is,

and what the masses are.

I haven't given much thought to the practical side of

the modern Taiwanese literary movement,

and so I don't have a sense of whether

the movement has international recognition.

But I think it's a tragedy that

we lack a native script of our own.

What exactly is this Taiwanese literature

which everyone is buzzing about?

Writers on this island

are ensnared by the empty term "Taiwanese Literature,"

and are apt to forget that they are writing in Japanese.

Is there only "Japanese Literature with Taiwanese flavor"?

Or does a "Taiwanese Literature" exist

apart from Japanese literature?

Farther, farther...

Into the vacuum-reality...

It's really a fresh esprit!

In this cool sense of beautiful world

a new myth is born

《神戶詩人》 The Poets of Kobe

Stark, blue shock causes

A curdling scream to erupt from deep red lips

The wind pretends to be apparent death in the next morning

My bloody wounds rack my body with fever.

Hi, Shuiyin Ping.

Hey, Li Zhang-rui, here are the last manuscripts;

I need you to finish Le Moulin volume 4.

I can't work on it and at the same time take care of

the literary supplement of the Tainan Daily News.

I see. Leave it to me.

I'll get it out.

Right, I heard from Lin Xiu-er that

Akutagawa Ryunosuke's oeuvre has been published.

Really? It finally came out!

Hachigatake

October 16, 1938 Departed from Tokyo

The following morning went climbing in Kiyosato,

camped in cave at summit

October 18 Descended from Lake Matsubara;

Evening, arrived at Tokyo

4 people in the car:

Hayashi Haruki, Samae Koji, Lin Xiu-er, Tsuji Masako

Through the dense forest

we reach a ridge

splendidly dropping

the rain in the sun pleased us

and below us

the white clouds hanging

Time flows leisurely here

Villages scattered afar the foothills

A wonderful miniature garden

A toy train belched out white smoke

as it passed from village to village

It was a land of fairy tale

《蛇》 Serpent

"Art Is of The Masses," wrote

Yang Kui, as the title of an art review.

"Actually art is appreciated by the masses."

"Things understood by only a few people are not art..."

This is a brave view based on

Proletarian Ideology.

No one would deny that Proletarian literature has drawn

from the conditions on our island

and from its natural environment.

Above that, in the Japanese literary elite

the past prosperity of Proletarian literature

and its influence go without mention.

However, if out of heroism

one chooses Proletarian literature

and its attitudes

then one should be blamed.

I didn't read Yang Kui's The Paperboy,

and I don't understand how strong

Proletarian literature was in Taiwan.

But I was excited to see many of

my childhood friends work hard to establish

a modern literary form.

I can't write in Chinese so I write in Japanese.

And I have no desire at all

to be a spokesperson for the people.

I only wish to rush headlong

into the field of liturgical poetry.

Like Shuiyin Ping's poems, my poems

are regarded as foreign by local people.

Our writings do not lack

a discontented and rebellious spirit.

We just have not written it down.

But even now I couldn't say

if it would have been better or worse.

I think our stance can still fit into

the context of those broader literary currents

we were engaged with.

The inauguration of the Jiali branch of

Taiwan Literature Federation was very lively, wasn't it?

With your diversity,

how would your works be discussed?

If discussion doesn't take off, let it go.

Just keep writing!

It's only a matter of time before Taiwanese

earn their place in Japanese literary circles.

〈星期日〉 "Sunday"

《達達主義者新吉的詩》 The Poems of Dadaist Takahashi Shinkichi

Take a newspaper.

Take a pair of scissors.

Choose an article.

When you're planning to make your poem

Cut out the article.

Then cut out each of the words

that make up this article

and place them in a bag.

Shake it gently,

then take out the scraps one after another

in the order in which they left the bag.

Copy them carefully.

Then the poem will be like you.

And here you are

A writer.

Noon. Express Train departed full, at full speed.

The small stations by the tracks, like stones, were ignored.

The Literary Times

橫光利— 〈頭與腹〉 Yokomitsu Riichi "A Row of Heads and Bellys"

Red, black, yellow, blue, green

Auto, cafe, parasol

Color, light, rhythm, noise — these are the splendors found in Egoist.

The flowing, coalescing, and spinning present—noon

A great din!

The sun symbolizes the streaming rhythm

that overtakes the space

A trembling roar

—writhe as you unwillingly succumb.

Oh, red! Oh, yellow! And then brown!

Oh, angles! Oh, angles! And then, oh, the mid-day—

Cubes,

cubes,

cubes,

cubes,

High,

low,

and high,

and higher,

higher

Far,

far out,

out,

out,

out,

far,

Planes,

planes,

planes,

Colors,

lights,

signs,

whistles,

bells,

signals,

colors,

Planes,

planes,

planes,

Eyes,

eyes,

window

eyes,

eyes,

Nostrils,

nostrils,

chimney nostrils,

Breathing,

burning,

puffing,

Millions of things upon things,

Billions of things upon things,

This for the eye,

the eye of being,

At the edge of the Hudson,

Flowing timeless,

endless,

On,

on,

on,

on...

What makes movie theatres boom?

Cinema League, N'est ce pas

The Pan-Taiwan Cinema Group

Through the Gaoxiong Film Group,

they initiated an era of almighty cinema.

And in the lanes, dazzling with neon,

talk of cinema flows from lips crimson while drinking.

An empty room, a figure of Maria and a mirror.

A sunset with nothing to offer.

Flickering a light onto trivial thoughts, watching a rainbow in misty night.

《三田文學》 Literature of Mita

〈鄉愁〉 "Nostalgia"

Excuse me, excuse me!

"It's Raining"

The tide is at its height, murky and quiet

Pulled to the soundless ocean bottom, I get blind

Chased into ocean by illusions

I fumbled for pearls,

blue nostalgia smiles at the tide's sheen

Outside the white glass window

something white is falling

On top of the white thing that falls

another white thing falls

white hat

white shoes

a mailbox on the corner is frozen crimson

All night long fireworks in the distant sky burst into pop eyes,

a music box echoes the wilderness, the dry grasses chant, the treetops dance.

I call back out from the halo of a lamp, through a pipe held between my teeth.

With the pale night sway

dreams Conscious and superconscious spin

weathering memory, shells of metaphysics...

A fierce ribbon rises, becomes many songs and heartlessly changes its face...

The light on the yellow walled building is beautiful.

Beautiful people's healthy skin,

an open curtain soaking up rays on a second floor window above the vase,

a woman's figure seen, a clock strikes nine.

A poem decrepit as the castle ruins

the poet chewing the wind sand,

pays his respects at the red temple.

The poesy composed there

takes on a decadent espirit,

and breaks out in a sneer at the gods.

Day after day, artists set the canvas

to the vulgarity of South Gate.

They squeezed from a tube

then buried it in color without concern for symmetry.

Southern air truly bring comfort,

giving birth to a consoling and flowing poem,

art, romance, music.

It's a sad thing...

a man who tried his hand at something new was laughed at.

From the south room an old newness is searched for.

Wandering in a sleepless town,

a vivid sexual lust, like a prostitute,

is also necessary for poesy.

Behold the north sky from a south window,

the iris cloud is already overflown

into esprit...

Hi, Shuiyin Ping, you seem busy recently.

I got a job at Taiwan Daily News.

What about you?

I'm still at the Xinhua Irrigation Association.

I'm getting married soon.

Congratulations!

Would you mind being my younger brother's

guarantor to enter school?

Of course!

Thank you.

By the way,

did you go to see the Taiwan Exposition?

I did.

There were so many new things.

Yang Kui's Taiwan New Literature

will be published at year's end.

See, that's the consequence of bickering in

Taiwan literary circles.

Anyway, I still submitted my manuscript.

Why not come with me to Jiali to visit Wu Xin-rong?

Sure.

Oh, right - here. The next issue of The Pasania.

The Pasania

"... All literature begins with customs.

Literary inspiration trickles from this hat that looks like a black lotus..."

Will the poesy in betel nut music eventually ascend to heaven?

Nishikawa Mitsuru's superb Masou Festival

was recently published by Taipei Masou Shobo.

It lays a new path through the classic rifts and

forces the esprit nouveau of Orientalism to its knees

with the unique features of Taiwan.

A steady and sturdy force runs

through the work.

It followed the Oriental magic of a Dalian master-poet,

Anzai Fuyue, author of an awesome work Eager God.

Now, Masou Festival also makes readers drunk and shudder.

Thank you, spring.

Our Mother,

Blessed Mother -

Festival of Masou,

fortune of gods -

Bring forth the spirits of this land. At dusk,

aspiring scholars toss wishes into kilns of gold.

In the sky, a dove flies,

or my heart.

《台灣新文學》 Taiwan New Literature

Literary circles in Taiwan are long in chaos and disorder,

full of meaningless noise.

According to the latest issue of

Literary Art of Taiwan, it is the result of

a vicious feud at Taiwan New Literature,

which ended with split alliances.

The label "New Literature" is extremely important.

Strictly speaking,

we have now reached the point where we cannot even adopt

the term "New Literature" in today's Taiwan.

What's more, it remains doubtful

whether the works in Taiwan New Literature give us

something new - has such a thing appeared yet in its pages?

Truly new literature ruptures past prejudices,

and brings into being thoughts

reassembled and revised.

However, those works labeled as "new literature"

appeared in the magazines,

are stale, boring, catering to the masses,

and this is mainly what is in them.

So what is the value of this wordy literature movement?

It goes without saying.

Perfection of modern poetry,

composing poems through Poetics,

needs to become a smooth relief sculpture.

In contrast, imperfect poets are

always trying to imitate Nature.

Before his death,

a poet has to keep on learning...

Poet's misfortune. Never become a poet...?

He walks a path of doubt and discontent.

That's all.

One day, class was dismissed early,

so I left school early.

I stopped at Meiji Jingu;

in the back where nobody goes

I leant on a tree and read a book.

I finished reading Ema Shoko's

collection of poems Invitation to Spring,

and started reading Hori Tatsuo's

essay collection Fox Glove.

Just then, while a calm atmosphere

created by reading

overflowed,

there came a chapter titled "Picture Postcard"—

Nothing to worry about - look, there's a sign up ahead.

Way to town... Way to station...

Anyway, I'm going to the town...

When reading this passage,

I felt someone was behind me

and the mood dissipated.

I looked back to see

a patrolman standing over me.

"Excuse me, it is not allowed."

"Studying here is not allowed."

"This area is for worship and strolling, and the like..."

"so would you please..."

I arose and, stifling a smile,

"I'm sorry,"

then lowered my head.

With the remnants of the

contemplative air still humming,

I walked away.

The patrolman's politeness was somehow touching,

and his words carried

a particular rhythm

which I could not quite put my finger on.

I kept reciting to myself

what he said in my heart.

"Excuse me, but it is not allowed."

"Studying here is not allowed."

"This area is for worship and strolling, and the like..."

"so would you please..."

Anyhow, sometime thereafter

I decided instead to head downtown.

Towards the end of May,

Jean Cocteau came to Japan

on Peakridge liner,

accompanied by the famous

comedian Charlie Chaplin.

This news made me excited.

Cocteau was far more renowned a poet

in Japan than he was in France.

His Opium is difficult,

but his sketches included

among his writings are fascinating.

Difficult but amusing.

His poems were translated by Horiguchi Daigaku

and then published by Daiichi Shobo.

The leaps of ideas in his poems are amazing.

I yearned to meet him

but I was nobody, a poor student.

I knew no French at all.

Everyday I read and cut out

news articles about his activities

to satisfy myself.

Collecting the articles and his photographs

was thrilling enough on its own.

Inside a soap bubble

Cannot find a way into garden

Spin around and around the edges

Cocteau's poems are,

in every aspect, dynamic and cubic,

and have attempted

a visualized expression.

In the NRF ( La Nouvelle Revue Francaise )

he claimed authors to be heroes

who constantly press ahead with esprit.

If the hero considers a return back to the past,

he commits a literary suicide.

During three days in Japan,

Cocteau visited the Japanese navy and children in Kobe.

Then he saw Kikugoro Onoe's performance in Kagami Jishi,

and he appreciated it highly.

During the performance he felt "the divinity of theater."

He thought the lion's long, shuddering tail

resembled a giant brush-pen,

and he found in it the sublime of Greek tragedy.

I read the papers and knew

he was to leave Yokohama on May 22,

so I went to join the crowd there and see him off.

About fifteen or twenty minutes before the ship left,

three or four people screamed "Cocteau is here!"

and then the crowd surrounded him.

I was in the crowd, too.

Cocteau looked a little bit different from his photos.

I blinked my eyes a few times and

wondered whether this was really Cocteau.

Suddenly I was pushed to his side.

Perhaps mistaking me for someone else, he thrust out his hand

and I shook it.

Bon voyage...

Merci, monsieur...

He seemed to say something else to me

but I could hardly understand.

Like the photo in Gloves of The Sky,

he has the large hands of an artist.

His palms and long fingers.

Blue veins coursing through them.

Then, among the gifts he held,

I saw Ema Shoko's Invitation to Spring.

Cocteau appeared to sincerely regret having to leave.

He waved a white handkerchief

then tossed it into the sky of the haze-filled harbor.

Like a white butterfly

it fluttered

and disappeared into the ocean.

Loneliness filled my heart,

like a butterfly descending into the waves.

The Sea Sparkles are shining —

Should I borrow Cocteau's ears to listen to the sounds of the ocean,

Or should I become a seashell?

The sky in the angled rays of the sun

shimmers above the sugar cane fields.

In the flat kingdom of banyan trees

the buffalo's eyes are bloodshot.

A girl's youth unfulfilled by makeup.

A hand hits sugar cane with a scythe.

Father strikes his pipe with a sad face.

- This time we'll need to harvest

enough out of this crop for your dowry...

The sugar cane worries

it would become sugar.

In a state of clumsiness,

Taiwan literature has slowly raised its head in recent years;

Some writers focus more on themselves

than on literature itself.

They are satisfied with

the aura of being literati.

Instead of fulfilling their vanity,

another group is enthusiastically engaged,

working persistently for literature.

Shouldn't the "two breaths" become "one breath" quickly

and march at a matched pace?

西腸順三郎 《歐洲文學》 The Literature of Europe by Nishiwaki Junzaburo

James Joyce's Ulysses appears

with a formidable form,

and no young authors can escape its influence,

the sharp mentality of this book.

When reading it one cannot help but recall

Professor Nishiwaki Junzaburo's great work

The Literature of Europe.

Nishiwaki argues that, when studying foreign literature,

to retain unchanged our Japanese perspectives

is to land a damaging blow to the field.

Therefore,

Haruyama Yukio's massive study

Joyce-centered Literature Movement

is a glittering scholarly gem that offers

a key to the forces behind

the formidable James Joyce.

...dried fish is scarce.

As for side dish...

a thin filet of muroaji fish

three to five cents.

Pickled, you're talking...

Did you hear Choi Seung-hee is coming to Taiwan?

She's accepted an invitation

from the Taiwan Literature Federation.

...coastal fish is also scarce,

but you may buy some from Kansai.

I hear there isn't much...

Last 40 meters,

Maehata leads, Maehata leads,

Genenger is also dashing out!

She is trailing behind a little.

Maehata retains a narrow lead.

Go ahead! Maehata!

Go ahead! Maehata, Go ahead!

Last 25 meters, last 25 meters,

last 25 meters

Maehata leads!

She leads a little! Maehata,

Go ahead! Go ahead!

I walk from out of a white cloud to the edge of one piece of distance

And I bend deeply. Time ripples out over there

Leaping. I leapt.

Now I'm in the sky—

The sky holds me, muscles hung in the sky

But I fall

Next we'll look at local weather.

First, Tokyo.

Tonight, wind from the south, and a brief north wind.

Clear with some clouds,

after dark

there may be some rain showers.

Tomorrow, a north wind becoming south.

Clear with some clouds

and chance of rain

in the afternoon.

In Saitama,

tonight, east winds.

Intermittent clouds

after dark there will be scattered

rain showers and thunderstorms.

Tomorrow southeast winds

and mostly clear skies.

Tonight in Kanagawa Prefecture,

southerly winds and mostly clear skies.

Swaying breezes

Earlier hours,

hazed,

pressed,

sweated,

Breezes cooling the air,

Nature's ambition waiting

breezes,

breezes,

cooler,

breezes,

wind mist,

Contours distinct,

cooler,

delightful,

Sun struggling and showing,

Growing pale,

faint, fainter,

and getting fainter indeed

Life easier delightful.

A single butterfly crosses over the Tartary Strait

安西冬衛 《軍艦茉莉》 Gunkan Mari

The silhouettes of seabirds passed over the cape again today

Last month Yu Da-fu visited Taiwan -

Were you there, Shuiying Ping?

The conference was monitored by Special Police.

I thought Yu may have planned to

announce some new concept, but that's it.

〈北平郊區日中兩軍衝突〉 "Japan forces engaged with China on the outskirts of Peiping"

Li Zhang-rui,

because of the war,

Chinese-language columns in the papers are abolished,

And Taiwan New Literature, as well.

The next issue might be the last.

It means Fengyue Newspaper will be

the only remaining Chinese-language publication.

It's unsettling.

November 20, 1938

English Literature Department Picnic,

held by Prof. Nishikawa Junzaburo

Left Tamagawa on the Oda Express

that runs upriver along the outer banks.

Rested at Inadazutsumi, visited Jindaiji Temple;

had the delicious soba at the storied temple.

Crimson on maples and yellow on ginkgo were beautiful.

On way home,

we took in more autumn scenery in Musashino.

Prof. Nishiwaki Junzaburo talked

about his life in Britain,

and about trees and flowers.

With the thick greenery of Numamoto behind him,

he joked that we are in the painting of

"A Sketch of British Literature: South Seas"

Professor loved his pipe

Being with the professor was joyful

White promenade

White chair White perfume

White cat White socks White neck

White sky White clouds

Then a handstanding White girl

My Kodak

White girl

Sometimes I want to become fruit.

Fresh smell and girlish innocent blushing sexuality strokes and pampers the soul's fatigue.

Desires for fresh fruit.

My blood pressure always wants to be a peach flower.

I wonder what place in Taiwan can we find

a good family to marry into?

Let's ask your uncle over there.

A day begins and ends

with rickshaws in Peiping.

The delegation officially greeting us,

the Mochizuki travel group,

show up on a row of rickshaws that

cross the ancient city in great numbers,

tracing along avenues

winding through narrow hutongs,

passing one unfamiliar hutong

after another.

It's a drizzly day.

I was led by a strangely calm

and fresh-faced Chinese guide.

Inside the Forbidden City

I imagined the magnificent ceremonies held there

and I thrilled at the extreme luxury of the imperial family.

When I counted the shifts of dynasties,

a miserable "people" comes to mind.

But I didn't want such sentimentalism

to invade my daydreams.

Just like when walking alongside

a crumbling wall of the palace,

I saw a pitiful boy, soaked by rain,

herding farm pigs and sheep.

To compare the boy's fate with

the distant, once decadent lives behind the wall?

I wonder if it's any use to compare.

I don't know.

I merely encountered and embraced the scene

as it was,

as a captivating painting riven with threads -

as a beautiful collection of poems.

Always grope in clear cerebral fluid Fatigued reason

Flowers of the north

Destroy the garden soil...

Silent as a fossil The blood of a people

One night last month,

I had a fever of 40.6 degrees and collapsed.

I struggled. My body was colored

by flowers of heat. My mind swayed between

reality and a world burnt by illness.

An enchantment lifts an ill esprit,

a thick music,

bloody flowers floated...

Beneath a poetic shower pouring

on my bed I was fatigued.

I shed a layer of skin like a weary snake...

5月20日返 Back to Taiwan on May 20

林修二與原妙子 ，台南神社婚禮 ，1940.6.18 Hara Taeko and Lin Xiu-er married at Tainan Jinja

國語家庭 National Language Family

As if startled by its own movement, the bat flits out into the open

As if it were tracing the cracks in a tea cup

the bat flies through, transiting a porcelain-like dusk

《雉子日記》 The Diary of Kiji

A stanza from Rilke's poem

is quoted in Mountain Diary.

I happened to read the same poem in The Diary of Kiji

and I was delighted to see it.

Baudelaire was fascinated with bats,

but I'm not that fond of them.

Like a crack in a tea cup,

the line of a bat's flight is beautiful.

Cracks!

This word is perfectly descriptive

- so these beautiful lines are.

Madam, excuse me.

My, my, what a crispy sound!

We will celebrate the New Year next week.

Huh? Next week...?

It seems that the New Year Festival here

is not the same as in Japan.

New Year?

Uh, the New Year is still one month away...

What? One month away?

Gunfire swelled on German-Polish border.

Europe seethes with war again.

Like the Spanish civil war.

Conflict between France and Great Britain and the Soviet Union ends.

But that rising maelstrom of sound -

Is the victorious Teutonic-Italian league roaring

Paris has fallen,

my far-flung friend.

You have left your name imprinted on your collection of poems,

Like a bloodstain.

Zhang Liang-dian changed his name to Nagata Yoshinori

(Taiwanese people with a new Japanese name

could receive better daily supplies.)

Li Zhang-rui changed his name to Aizawa Ichiro

Lin Xiu-er has come.

Shuiyin Ping to Yanagisawa Masao

Shuiyin Ping, good to see you!

Li Zhang-rui, I didn't know you'd be here.

This is my wife.

Her name is Taeko.

I borrowed Memories of Taiwan

by Nakagawa Inosuke.

It was voluminous,

but it's self-indulgent,

and every observation is self-affirmative.

You quickly realize that

he misunderstood Taiwan.

I remember I was invited to a dinner party

hosted by Shimada Kinji, along with Nishikawa Mitsuru

and Shuiying Ping, and Niigaki Koichi,

we had talked about this book.

I also recalled reading that Nakagawa had been arrested

in his underwear near Kawabata in the newspaper.

The horse takes the military port as viscera.

First, in an emergency session held on June 23rd,

the Konoe Cabinet finalized plans for

a commodity mobilization program.

On October 22nd an assault was launched

on the largest stronghold

of anti-Japanese fighters, located in Guangdong.

The Army and Navy Ministries report:

October 27th, 5:30 p.m.

our forces have eliminated

all remaining enemy forces...

On November 25th,

over the "Agreement for Cultural Cooperation

between Japan and Germany,"

representatives of Anti-Comintern Pact,

Japan, Germany and Italy,

gathered for its second annual celebration.

Prime Minister Arita gave the opening talk.

The south is a source of light. It lends us order

happiness and splendor

I've joined the Taiwan Literary Society

but I'm too busy

to submit anything.

With Literary Taiwan and Literature of Taiwan

writers were able to stay active.

Nishikawa Mitsuru strove to

establish Taiwan as a literary stronghold.

Folklore of Taiwan is also considered

to have solid content.

Guo Shui-tan mentioned that they're

working on a special issue on Beimen.

Frederic Mistral

wrote while living in southern France,

and produced glorious poetry in his native Provencal

that went beyond his contemporaries in Paris;

This shining Provencal literature

finally can be compared to a huge palace.

Just as he created a courageous and

long-revered voice,

so shall we from our South Seas Formosa

produce a literature worthy of the name,

and earn for it a place

in the history of Japanese literature.

In Tainan,

Shuiyin Ping, who is composing steadily,

along with Gyo Shotaro,

Toda Fusako, Hashimoto Fumio and Lin Xiu-er in Tokyo,

represent a new, incisive espirit nouveau for poetry.

《民俗台灣》 Folklore of Taiwan

《民俗台灣》 同仁 Members of Folklore of Taiwan

Oh, that's right!

An eclipse is visible from Tainan today.

Alas, finally

the end of our world is coming.

In the clear stretch of late autumn sky

a silk curtain spreads.

In an instant the sun darkens.

The spirits silently crouches beneath

the universe wearing a shroud.

Come what may,

the universe is my decided fate

like something understood

calmly

waiting for the light to return,

only the shadows above me

never fade away.

And the sun sets.

Pity, pity.

If it remains dark,

or, if night should fall,

When shall our sun shine once again?

〈今晚在西太平洋 皇軍與美英戰鬥開始〉 "Tonight in the West Pacific"

〈今晚在西太平洋 皇軍與美英戰鬥開始〉 "Imperial forces have begun to engage British

〈今晚在西太平洋 皇軍與美英戰鬥開始〉 and American units"

This is breaking news.

December 8, 6 a.m. The Ministry of War reports

from Imperial General Headquarters

that during the early morning hours today

Imperial Naval forces in the Western Pacific

have engaged British and American units.

Imperial Naval forces in the Western Pacific

have engaged the British-American alliance.

...America has not expressed

any repentance...

Madam, a guest has arrived.

All right.

Dear, Zhang Liang-dian has arrived.

Lin Xiu-er, are you feeling better?

What are you reading?

三好達治 《測量船》 The Surveying Ship by Miyoshi Tatsuji

A wind blew.

And my words scattered as if the wind

had swept the autumn leaves.

Something cold ran down my cheeks

in a stream.

〈大東亞文學者大會召開〉 "The Greater East Asian Writers' Conference"

With the support of the Information Office

"The Greater East Asian Writers' Conference,"

held its opening in Tokyo on Meiji Day,

uniting writers from Japan, Manchukuo, and China.

Representatives of the Republic of China

Manchukuo representatives

proclaimed the strength of Japan,

as they were on grand display during these opening events

in a time of struggle for Greater East Asia,

the poet Sasaki Nobutsuna rose to recite a waka

to welcome fellow writers from far away.

Saito Ryu then led the recitation of the oath.

The Conference proceeded

for the following two days,

on the 4th and the 5th,

members participated in solid debates

under the spirit of Hakko Ichiu.

They exchanged opinions

on the advance of Asia culture.

We, the assembled writers of Asia,

pledge to advance Japan to the forefront

and commit our very fates to the advent

of East Asian supremacy.

So declared on November 5

Showa 17 (1942).

The Greater East Asian Writers' Conference

With enlistment paper in hand

you unyieldingly smile

You are no longer my brother

you are devoting your life

to the emperor

a Japanese soldier

We salute and support the families

whose boys have been sent to the front.

I thought about the youth in Taiwan.

I realized how our courageous young men

are proud of their military service,

how they embrace Japanese rules and order,

and how they understand Japanese

better than their own dialect,

in order to discard old Taiwanese customs.

This realization was startling.

Wasn't Taiwanese literature intended for

these young men?

Hadn't we created something more precise

and more beautiful than Japanese?

Hadn't we understood what they truly thought about,

and strived to make them

feel the strength of their ideas?

They fight firmly against their surroundings.

Are they encouraged by Taiwan Literature?

This assembly allowed me

to understand Taiwanese literature,

and what mission we should pursue.

If you fit a diamond into your artificial eye, what would it be?

We must crush the huge head hung with sausage.

When will the day come when cremated ashes will be blown from a palm like dandelion seeds?

〈美英擊滅之歌〉 〈健民運動〉 "The Song of Smashing Anglo-America / Health Movement"

You've been staying out a lot lately.

Guo Shui-tan was just let out of prison,

and so we stayed up all night talking.

You were out for two weeks, too.

I sent reports via telegram from the mountains.

We're running out of money, you know.

Dawn breaks in a drunken song, sounds of a spittoon

and from a native's lips to poesy give birth

This is a myth. The flesh is but one attribute of the soul.

The flesh falls away but the soul remains, so it is eternal.

Hideous shields.

Joined fury of million of souls, will tear down the citadel of materialism.

...this epochal war.

Victory in this struggle will...

The 1st Taiwan Final Engagement Literature Conference,

hosted by the Taiwan Literature Service,

Regional Sector, Imperial Central Agency,

under the direction of the Japan Literature Service Association,

November 13th, 10 a.m.,

at Taipei City Hall,

60 members from the island gathered.

Pearl Harbor has brought total war

back to the south seas, and so,

as the full gravity of this battle

will surely be felt this autumn,

writers across Taiwan have come together as a united front

to discuss the establishment of a system

for literary contributions to the war.

At that time, it was decided that

the military system shall be supported by

the full strength of Taiwanese literature.

Under Japan's Reign for 50 years,

it's time for everyone to contribute to the empire.

What generosity! What compassion!

No rice rations yet, for this year.

Let's make dumpling from Hourai rice.

It looks like we can't buy joss paper now, too.

Even if you don't pray to Gods,

you should still offer prayers to our ancestors.

西川滿 《花妖箋》 The Notes of Flower Nymph

That shadowy figure -

I wonder who it is.

There is no god in me

and I'm afraid that's true

There is no space for God in me -

I am no temple

because I myself am that god.

Rilke's god exists

I am an existence burning out

thus a collapsing god.

里爾克 Rainer Maria Rilke

"Devil —"

How many times was this word

shouted out during East Asian Buddhist Meeting.

"Devil."

There is no doubt that

it refers to Britain and America.

But the Japanese delegation made a speech

without using this word.

If so, why foreign delegates wouldn't adopt

the terms "Britain and America"?

Then the conclusion is clear.

That is, we should defeat Britain and America.

Every living soul across East Asia

should combine in strength

and push toward to this goal.

The metal of the axe rang out, echoing with the core of the mountain.

"Soon this tree too will be a ship dispatched to the front."

You said this to me as you ran your hand across the bark

With your big, gnarled hands.

In the literary circle of Taiwan -

writers, poets, lyricists, composers of haiku

and senryu - as well as in the field of fine arts,

both Eastern Painting and Western Painting,

it's time for all artists to band together.

What's left to be done is to organize

those in music, theater, science, and religion,

among other fields

under the rule of the new system.

Dear Intellectuals,

never miss this chance,

to help lead an imperial restoration of culture.

Dear fellow writers, I truly hope that

you can sense your responsibility as authors

in this time of transition.

Among the world's cultures,

with this Oriental fate and will,

we should invest our energy in

supporting great cooperation

and never withdraw.

While our Greater East Asian comrades

are fighting to topple Britain and America,

I would like to express

my gratitude to

the Greater East Asian Writers' Conference.

It is for these reasons that

our responsibility as writers is so great.

This rise to prominence of writers

is not merely to

walk out from the ivory tower,

but to face and encounter danger

defending our island without losing literary independence.

In short, literature can't live merely on

this wartime struggle

Without such reflection,

I'm afraid that motivations of authors

would prove to be meaningless.

〈新軍事緊縮政策試水溫〉 "The New Policy of Military Retrenchment"

〈日幣現金賣出動向成謎〉 "The Currency of Cash is in Chaos"

言卜閆: 林修二病逝 Obituaries: Lin Xiu-er passed away from illness

Oh, Achiya!

Kei!

Kei! Kei!

Hurry, hurry!

All that's left is sound

I close my eyes again Place the pipe to my temple and laugh

As smoke exits through my mouth I refrain from moving

Shuiyin Ping,

so your house has burned down?

I'm looking for a place to settle down

my family stays in Nanxi.

Tainan is deserted.

Soviet Russia declared war on Japan last week.

I heard there will be an important announcement at noon.

玉音放送 — 宣布日本投降 Jewel Voice Broadcast—Japanese Surrender

〈終戰詔書〉 "The Imperial Rescript on the Termination of the War"

熱烈迎接租國 Welcome Fatherland China

Slaves for fifty years

Will be liberated!

Slaves for fifty years

Will return to our fatherland!

二戰後日人遣返 ， 沿街拍賣家當 After the war, Japanese being repatriated to their country

二戰後日人遣返 ， 沿街拍賣家當 sold their possessions on street.

When the sun lost its color, a rooster stood on one leg, pondering

On October 20, 1947, an autumn day

Why the colorless sun affect the leg?

Under a tree deprived of leaves!

《台灣新生報》 二二八事件 號外 Taiwan Shin Sheng Daily News Extra: 228 Incident

In March of 1947, journalist Shuiyin Ping,

taking order from his supervisor, published an extra "228 Incident Breaking News."

He was thus accused of an "Offense Against State Security"

by the Kuomintang government and imprisoned for 6 months.

Zhang Liang-dian, involved in the 228 Incident Handling Committee,

was accused of the same charge and was detained for 9 months.

Taiwan Culture

Taiwan Culture / Taiwan Monthly

The poet

an anonymous poet, crying

Under the shadow of Retrocession

A poet not singing

Several colleagues in the Irrigation Office and I

will hold a reading group.

Many books at bookstores are actually

traps set by the Kuomintang.

Please be careful.

If you don't take up Mandarin,

you won't be able to find work,

you even won't be able to write.

Do you know how Tang De-zhang was captured

by the 21st Division?

Before he was executed,

he was placed in the cell next to mine.

As for Zhang Liang-dian... he'd already

been in jail for several months.

The Commander of the U.S 7th Fleet,

arrived at Keelung Harbor

in a destroyer at 9 a.m. yesterday.

The destroyer was guided by our navy

and moored at dock No. 18

Chief of the Navy and the U.S. Charge d'affaires

came to welcome them at the harbor,

They boarded the destroyer to receive him in person,

and invited him to rest at a restaurant

and wait for a military meeting.

Reportedly, the purpose of this meeting was to

exchange views on future cooperation

in terms of defensive military strategies.

A poet, with pipe in mouth, swallows the sweet seasons mist;

the ashtray is the farm of a poet's thought.

In a splendid, seasonal landscape painting of the Tropics,

I hold a broken ukulele and become a singer of dusk.

Two weeks after visiting the Pacific,

U.S. Secretary of Defense, Louis Johnson

has reportedly decided to

put the disputed Taiwan Issue back on the agenda,

and stop the current non-aid policy.

and adopt other measures in the Far East Cold War.

General MacArthur thinks this treaty

should remain intact for 25 years

so that stability in the Far East can be strengthened.

美援 U.S. Aid

In shadow where the sun is unable to reach, green patterns on the ground

Secretly grow, with their quietly dark lives, hundreds of thousands in infinities

電報: 李張瑞逝 Telegram: Li Zhang-rui is dead

1951年蔣介 石總統元旦 公 告 Speech of President Chiang Kai-shek on New Year's Day 1951

The Crime of Armed Rebellion

訊問筆錄 Interrogation Record

自 白書 Confession Record

總統核定:李張瑞原判15 年徒刑 ， 改判死刑 The President changed Li Zhang-rui 's 15-year-imprisonment

總統核定:李張瑞原判15 年徒刑 ， 改判死刑 into the death penalty

李張瑞臨刑前 Li Zhang-rui before execution

Li Zhang-rui

was an officer in the Douliu Water Resources Bureau.

At the end of 1948,

He met a colleague Su Rong-sheng,

a member of underground Communist Party.

Either due to a passion for knowledge

or encouragement from Su,

Li organized a secret reading club

to share magazines on current affairs

In 1950, the underground Communist Party in Yunlin

was monitored and so was Su Rong-sheng.

Li's secret reading club was hence exposed.

Li was sentenced to 15 years in prison.

However, Chiang Kai-shek called for the death penalty

At the end of 1952,

Li was executed in Machangding, aged 41.

The bridge from my chest to home is a gray rainbow.

Are we natives going to scatter with fireworks?

My parents, my siblings, be healthy and well

My poor wife and children who lost their companion

brace yourself against the bitter cold and stay strong

Those who value eternity

go trust a rock

and go make a grave stone.

Even if one dies young, like a flower,

in perfection...