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If rude no way out. Filthy, noisy,
I will watch over my hospital memories —
Life? At least,
At least, from now on, will wear a halo.

A park hollowed out by a pole, holy man up a pole.
Still someone curled up under a spider web of tubes,
Can only find leads to the self.

Already no one cares to verify my identity.
Should I go down to the studio at the end for some ID photos?

A sweltering trip,
Even bottles of saline rot away.
I will watch over my hospital memories —
Disgusting? The most lavish thing in the world,
Is probably just sickness.

I’m not worth a cent, though that’s just their view.
But just the same I’ll be forced to pay even more.

Who can you depend on! This is when the sick and sickness depend on each other
He killed the sickness, and killed you as well.
Everyone could be that person.

Just the same I return from the end,
Take a ribbed jailhouse: concrete, iron, white plaster,
Detained dark lungs like nightfall,
Like two children who feel wronged…
Is this my face?

The lanky physician,
A head taller than the sick,
Because he can be drab, humble, dim-witted.
We think we’re bright,
That wisdom is limited, and belongs elsewhere.

There is a rather abstract expression for elsewhere,
That month the leader became the people’s heartache.

Hallway light bulbs bathed in halos,
Until forming twin horns, until formed into someone.

© 2003, Che Qianzi

© Translation: 2003, Yang Liping and Jeffrey Twitchell-Waas