In the Wake of Autumn
– History is but the record of one accident after another; poetry is an act of love to compensate for this lack.
When moonlight once again paves the mountain trail from where you come
I hope you can believe that
I have already recovered from the will to escape
From the edge of hiding myself under a pseudonym and other similar desires
From a heart of panic from a fate of begging
From a plot that remains incoherent after a hundred alterations.
From a hurt that is both absolutely tender and absolutely sharp
When speaking of the wake of autumn
no one can know better than I.
There are always a few spare woods to shed their leaves.
Always some dreams to be buried always some individuals
Insisting on varying the colors and textures under the shadow of darkness.
I remember your warnings
And now observe strictly the distance between hoping and imaging.
Never again will I involve the depth of events
Not to drench in the river of sorrows
nor to pick fruits of regrets
When moonlight once again paves the mountain trail from where you depart.
I don’t know if you are willing to believe
Yet I have truly recovered having learned
Not to argue for Truth, just letting it fade away like the falling of leaves
And endlessly edit out those excess worries
(Those excesses are but the withered twigs serving only to prick one’s skins).
On the days in the wake of autumn I
Can almost be mistaken for
A hopelessly optimistic woman.
（Chang Shu-Li 译）