After discussion with Meng Lang and his long-time translator Denis Mair, I have made two changes to my translation of Meng Lang’s poem:
They did some sleight of hand
changed to:
the museum of humanity.
changed to
The poem has been revised at CDT.
The outpouring of poetry for Liu Xiaobo began when he was moved, still a prisoner, to the hospital, and has not stopped. Just a week before his passing, an anonymous poem showed up on the WeChat public account 小众童网. It was quickly deleted, but has been archived and translated at CDT:
There is someone who will die soon
There is someone who will die soon
as I write these words
he dies a bit more.
He’s as thin as the last scrap of paper
left in our time.
He has no crime, he has no enemies,
he has no spite. But still
through death he puts to shame the authors of this era.
His wife, just as thin,
puts to shame all other loves.
My brothers say: leave politics behind
don’t wail, don’t look.
But I think it’s the least that a writer can do.
My friends write happy things
I love them, holding back my complaint.
My elders say: think of the flowers, your dog
you wouldn’t want to lose them.
But I think it’s the least that a conscience can do.
I’ve known it all my life
the pained hand reaching up through the snow.
My parents and my wife say: think of your children
such is everyone’s fear
But I think it’s the least that a person can do.
Twenty-seven years ago, one word
was flattened by a tank. He still can’t stand
the laughter ringing in the palace
the palace dwellers think they know
all living things are ants. But it’s true.
I know what happened in 1630: the criminal sliced up slowly in Caishikou
the people snatching up his meat. The emperor
snickering at the eunuch’s report.
All living things are ants, I know it’s true
the city people, bandits, emperors, the trees on the hill
none knows if the empire will last four more years.
As I write these words
he has died even more.
How many days left? Three? Two?
He’s pure as a saint,
an omen for his killers.
His death will drain the color from our time
like a blinding light.
But it might unleash a signal
of good or ill, no one can say. [Chinese]
Anne Henochowicz <annemh@alumni.upenn.edu>