Wild Grass

Chardonnay Needler

When I’m quiet, I feel complete; 
I then open my mouth, 
simultaneously feeling empty. 

The past life has already died. 
With respect to its death, 
I am overjoyed, 
for from its death I know 
that it once was alive. 

This dead life has already rotted. 
With respect to its decomposition, 
I am overjoyed, as from its rotting 
I know that it has not been empty. 
The sludge of life drips on the earth, 
but it doesn’t nourish forests, 
only bears wild grass, this is my fault. 

Wild grass — doesn’t run deep, 
doesn’t have pretty flowers or leaves, 
but rather sucks up dew, sucks up water, 
sucks up old remains of the blood and flesh of the dead, 
each form trying to take life from it. 

When it was living, 
it’d be tread upon and 
cut down until it’d die and rot. 

But I’m at ease, happy. 
I’ll laugh, I’ll sing. 

I love my wild grass, 
but I scorn this ground 
that’s adorned in wild grass.
 
The fires under the earth are moving, running wild; 
once the fire erupts, 
it will consume all the wild grass and the tall trees, 
such that nothing will be left to rot. 

But I’m at ease, happy. 
I’ll laugh, I’ll sing.
 
Heaven and earth are so silent, 
and so I can’t laugh or sing. 

If heaven and earth weren’t so silent, 
I probably still couldn’t do these things. 

I — caught between light and darkness, life and death, 
past and present — dedicate as a testimony 
this bunch of wild grass 
to friends and enemies, 
man and beast, 
those I love and those I don’t love. 

For myself, for friends and enemies, 
man and beast, 
those I love and those I do not: 
I hope this wild grass’ destruction and decay come quickly.
If not, I will not have lived at all; this, in actuality, 
is even more pitiful than dying and decaying. 

Go now, wild grass, along with my epigraph!