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Gedicht

Wang Xiaoni

7. I Met with Deception

The last the narrowest corner
in the whole wide world.
There I met with deception.

Lying face down on the bed
Someone said to me
You’re more beautiful than ever
The people outside all love you even more than they did.

Only one step away from a deception
I could not lay bare.
Your waking might have only lasted minutes.
I wanted to say
the red tablets are like seeds if one looks at them long enough.
What I really wanted to say was
what human beings enjoy most
is, at close distance,
to gather round bleeding wounds.

As for all those things on the outside
I wanted to hide them, I could not help myself.
I wanted to grow in a flurry a thousand hands.
I thought to pray to God
to protect you with unconsciousness
I was forced to stand on the side of lies.

I’ve come from the outside.
Day after day
my high-strung heart
stores up an intricate thread-like terror.

You have made
the bedspread crumpled all over.
Again and again
I have failed to smooth that cotton.

I’ve done all I can
to take up your line of sight.
Apart from my hands
I don’t know what else
I can use to shelter you with.

I MET WITH DECEPTION

Wang Xiaoni

Wang Xiaoni

(China, 1955)

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I MET WITH DECEPTION

7. I Met with Deception

The last the narrowest corner
in the whole wide world.
There I met with deception.

Lying face down on the bed
Someone said to me
You’re more beautiful than ever
The people outside all love you even more than they did.

Only one step away from a deception
I could not lay bare.
Your waking might have only lasted minutes.
I wanted to say
the red tablets are like seeds if one looks at them long enough.
What I really wanted to say was
what human beings enjoy most
is, at close distance,
to gather round bleeding wounds.

As for all those things on the outside
I wanted to hide them, I could not help myself.
I wanted to grow in a flurry a thousand hands.
I thought to pray to God
to protect you with unconsciousness
I was forced to stand on the side of lies.

I’ve come from the outside.
Day after day
my high-strung heart
stores up an intricate thread-like terror.

You have made
the bedspread crumpled all over.
Again and again
I have failed to smooth that cotton.

I’ve done all I can
to take up your line of sight.
Apart from my hands
I don’t know what else
I can use to shelter you with.
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Nederlands Letterenfonds
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Versopolis
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