by Qiu Qixian
Love will not end.
It only starts, and starts again
like the death of an individual,
like tomorrow.
It creates a heaven when it’s in joy, and
leaves praises behind when it’s gone, more than hells.
Love will not end.
It only starts, and starts again,
letting more pain squeeze into your heart
to make the old wounds heal halfway,
like pressing plants into coal seams continuously,
pressing into old materials, deeper and deeper.
If only the final flame would burn quietly
with a warm glow to accompany the aging Borges.
Translated from the Chinese by Ming Di.