The revival

Weak and troubled, the pen narrated words
Of the matters lost through days and seasons; 
Of the red flame raised high above the sword; 
And of the green thorn that betrayed reasons, 
But what it has whispered, it did not know—
Thus a convoluted path it must tread, 
Through piercing indifference of silvery snow, 
Its sanguine agony of old has bled. 
On the paralysed edge of doom and death, 
Where a soul's strength alone could barely stand, 
It frightfully woke from quick gasps of breath, 
For after great pain, it's stirred to withstand. 
From then on the earth's tenderly revived, 
And warmth fulfilled, where coldness was deprived.

i: guests of the world

Purple street—grey heart—black lamp—
It was dark. Things were missing from the street. 
Homewards, the subway track screamed deep 
Into the night like an empty throat. 
It was summer—heat unbearable and white 
Scabious wildly bloomed: over 
The yards, occupying every corner of his eyes. 
Right, right, it was time to say goodbye.

Goodbye, Terra dearest, 
It could be so clean. 
Young Jerome, who fell 
Asleep one Sunday afternoon, was buried 
Alive—

But it was all right, Lazarus, 
This illness was not to end in death.

These people, they wrote nothing save broken verses of love
And rain: sweet city, this is Taipei! 
Home—city of cat-eyed girls, who pronounced 
The city with beautiful straight hair and
Foreign names—oh-dearest-Paris-Milan-and-Tokyo! 
They paid to be sophisticated, streetly 
Girls in concert halls—
Damn them all.

They placed the flowers around him—wrought in rings—
Red and green wreath, which 
Thrived snuggly around his chest. 
He sneezed—but they did not see. 
The father's torpid camarilla 
Whispered deeply beneath their dark coats, each 
Wearing their own insensate compassion 
Atop their throats. They gargled with their words
And juggled through their phrases. 
Each gesture was calculated and weighed
With caution: these were their condolences. 
'Twas a grave matter, an eventful carapace gather. 
Locked inside and barred from freedom—the cold 
Steel of imprisonment—thick with
The density of light and heat; 
The world that revolved around him; 
And the pallid sky, which beaded summer 
Scent through the air. Yet he did not feel a thing. 
Every way he turned there was wall, 
There was no way he could fall. 
A crisp beetle crawled across his lower lip, only 
To route back to the rose bud! The little creep. 
The sepulchre has been a bed of dreams—

Weep not! Jerome was only asleep—

'Incipit.'

ii: fading doors

In and out of the doors they fluttered through—
They did it well (with dresses) like a dance:
Dark butterflies, they were drawn to a trance, 
And where they passed each other on the way, 
One age-wrecked wanderer had words to say
(Though nobody had the patience to hear
What message did the feeble sentence bear—
Everyone continued to talk in mime,
They cloaked the mirror and crippled the time—
While the whole world sauntered through the evening
For the mourners' music and the living),

With throat-grating words of difficult tongue, 
He brought and spoke his wisdom for the young,
'Waste not your life on such formality, 
Instead, seize all—seize with frugality
Of all the passions worthy of your woe, 
Henceforth live with sighs tempted; breaths in awe, 
Than that of regret and of senile age,
To walk knowing that you've been on the stage!'
Those were the very words of his advice, 
But his desperate rant was not suffice
To have the path of hasty cadres changed—

And ignored the counsel, the house exchanged
The old pilgrim for more important chores, 
Such as greeting about the waving doors. 
So amidst a thousand things to pursue, 
The old man disappeared in nightly hue, 
Sagacity did not much longer stay,
Sanity, too, left the very same day. 
Sensibility would disperse that week, 
Triviality's all that was left to seek—
Jerome—who's slept a monotonous dream, 
Had no nightmare to wake up from a scream.

Passion—end no more in exclamation, 
It has left instead an empty question: 
Lost the answer has—but nevertheless,
Through those delicate nocturnal caress 
The mesmerising midnight monody
Yearned ceaselessly—such serious mockery!
Such subtle parody! The taste of hint
Overlapped in layers of fantasy
But reaped only exhausted ecstasy. 
It could not be satisfied by visions
Of nights cut out in careful incisions

And square calendars—mechanical moon—
Vintage of life! It's been labeled too soon, 
Like those years ended in June: the fragrance
Warm with summer's elegance and romance, 
Yet sans the heat of passionate embrace—
In this case, Jerome's face has grown foreign, 
Estranged, and alienated—his own world
Ignored by those around him. He grew cold
While all the other shadows grew long and grey—
To his gather—through a twisted pathway, 
Each and everyone had errands to do.

iii: sky in transition

The heart barely trembled, 
In its chthonic chambre, it remained
Resilient, like the cold weather after seasonal
Alteration—autumn affected. 

iv: unfeeling season

It has been a season of immense effort 
To forget (snow has never fallen 
On this street, instead, men and women
Grew hearts of frost)—and ached 
For the coldness. It was too hard. 
Everyone but Jerome mourned and grieved, 
But only Time could bring the next season.

Hidden beneath 
Was a plate of warmth, leftover 
(Like last night's dream)—
The residue of revered recollection (grew 
Moist and dampened by the tears, which softened 
The winter ground) looped about the black 
Spirals of hair, and eyes 
That drowned the most familiar of

Anamneses.

Faint photographs grew dim, 
Then made inaudible. (Was it
The eyes that have dulled the fire?)
With one thick thud
All the faces were shut out, 
In the album—locked 
Inside the room—forgot 
Behind the doors. Jerome's 
Identity vermiculated. (It dried 
And evaporated.)  Yet, each was claimed
And cried on.

A distant voice echoed a piano's whisper. 
From grave to vivace! 'Pour your emotions!'
(For Jerome?)  'Yes, everything (and 
Nothing) for Jerome.'  The room was 
Left untouched for Jerome. The bed
Was made for Jerome. The windows
Were locked for Jerome. The 
Teacup was bought for 
Jerome. I danced
For Jerome.

Everything for Jerome! 
Allegro-andante-adagio: 
'Twas all the same.

v: a colour left behind

The flowers flourished from the silver sand;
The waters washed away the snow above—
At last it came winter's withering end, 
And there, spring has startled her sigh of love. 
Amidst the sodden soil's a place of peace, 
Two stones slept in the centre square and sound. 
'Til a monstrous might's torn the rocks apiece, 
A tomb empty was by the dark earth bound. 
Where the sombre opening breathed and yawned, 
A rose with rouge cheeks enormously grew. 
When the mysterious heavens blushed and dawned, 
Jerome woke again 'mongst the star-lit dew. 
Yet, he has left the world for far too long—
His past was lost—like a terrible song.

Dale Chou
2002-10-19