not my photograph…
Translated…
Opening My Eyes, Saw a Figure, Squatting
At the Head of Wind, the Tail of Water, Ready, to Stand Back Up
The Fogs, Hovered Over Every Inch of My Hometown
Come! Hear Our Heartbeats
The Unrhythmic Tempo, Was the Sound of Roots, Exploding in the Planted Fields
The Souls of Eels, Struggling Hard
The Watermelons that Had Stopped Breathing, Looking Hard, for the Direction of Where Their Breaths Went
Come! Come Hear Our Hearts Beat
It’s a Body, Singing, at the Lowest Level of Life
In the Blackened Mud, Keeping Together, Bringing All of the Hopes
Into Being
Red Alert, Red Alert……Pulling Tightly, Our Shoulders Which Were Right Next to One Another’s
Not Elsewhere, Right in This Hometown of Ours that’s Ceased Breathing
We Breath! We Keep on Breathing! Breathing, is a Way to Rebel
As We Rose Up, Our Legs Found Themselves in the Blackened Muddied Paddies
Black, the Color of the River of Our Mothers
Black, the Color from Being Out Under the Sun Too Long
Mud, is the Scars from the Survival of Hard Labor
Mud, the Marks of Rebellion Against the Pollution of Our Land
This, is very touching, seeing how your original countryside hometowns, getting slowly, invaded with the industrializations of the modern world, and, you felt you needed to do something, so, you rebelled!
not my photo…