Autumn '26 Issue｜2026 秋季刊
at 8:00 p.m., the ground keeps what the mouth cannot finish
after Carolyn Forche
by Paola Lee
At 8:00 p.m., my grandmother passes her palm into the weather of her knee
and the room rearranges itself around remembering.
The fan keeps striking the same pocket of air above us,
clicking with the patience of a clock too tired to count years correctly.
Outside, the concrete exhales the heat it has hidden all afternoon.
Inside, another country begins.
“Seven years old,” she says.
Not seven as a number.
Seven as dirt beneath fingernails.
Seven as smoke trapped in bamboo rafters.
Seven as the hour adults began carrying language in broken bowls.
Carrying fear in woven baskets the way they once carried rice.
The ground beneath the house remembers more than the house does.
The ground remembers footsteps.
The ground remembers names.
The ground remembers where the bodies entered silence
before language could.
1943 arrives as a smell.
A man turns chicken above red coal. Fat slips into fire and becomes bright.
A dog waits beneath the table, studying the laws of hunger.
Smoke rises through bamboo slats and loosens itself into the evening.
The skin darkens. The fire answers. Beyond the trees,
another history has already begun walking toward the fire.
The gunshot arrives first.
Before mourning.
Before the sentence that will spend decades trying to finish itself.
The chicken keeps turning.
The chicken keeps turning.
The chicken keeps turning because hands do not know how to stop
when history enters the room. Because hunger survives catastrophe.
Because the body continues its old ceremonies long after the world
has become unrecognizable.
My grandmother pauses.
The memory does not.
It crosses decades carrying the smell of soil between its teeth. It settles beside me at the table.
I am eleven years old, knees touching hers,
holding an inheritance I do not yet know how to carry.
Outside, a motorcycle climbs the road.
Someone laughs behind a window.
Somewhere a television blooms blue against a curtain.
Ordinary evening continues.
Beneath the evening, another country quietly unfolds.
The dog remains waiting.
The smoke remains climbing.
The chicken keeps turning inside the last ordinary second before history learns its name.
Years later, her chair remains at the table, a question that
outlived the mouth that asked it. The fan still clicks. The hour still returns.
Some evening I step outside and watch the sky lower itself over power lines
and rooftops, and I think of all the stories buried beneath the roads,
all the names the soil has learned to pronounce without a mouth.
At 8:00 p.m., again.
Different year.
Same hour.
The concrete cooling.
The insects beginning.
The first stars opening their small wounds in the dark.
Above me, the sky keeps an impossible archive of weather, distance,
and the things no witness survived to name.
Beneath me, the ground continues its quieter work,
keeping what the mouth cannot finish,
keeping what history could not carry, keeping the outline of every vanished body
the way a river remembers stones
long after the stones themselves have forgotten the river.
Paola Lee is a writer from the Philippines. Her work has appeared in / is forthcoming in Tint Journal, Blue Marble Review, Eterna Journal, and elsewhere.
晚上八点，大地守着言语无法道尽的
翻译：诗验室
晚上八点，祖母将手掌变成膝盖的天气
整个房间都聚集在回忆中。
风扇不断搅动着我们头顶上方同一片空气，
带着无力准确记年的时钟之耐心哒哒作响。
屋外，水泥吐着整个下午积攒的热气。
屋内，另一个国度正在展开。
“七岁，”她说。
不是作为数字的“七”。
指甲缝里泥土的“七”。
困于竹椽间烟雾的“七”。
大人们开始用破碗盛装语言的“七”。
像曾经驮米那样，用编织箩筐背上恐惧。
屋子踩着的大地比房屋本身的记忆更长久。
大地记住了脚步。
大地记住了名字。
大地记住了躯体在语言进入沉默前
进入它的地方。
1943年以一种气味降临。
一个男人在火红的炭火上翻转着一只鸡。油脂滴入火成了明亮的火花。
一只狗在桌下守着，研究着饥饿法则。
烟穿过竹条上升，消散在夜色中。
表皮渐焦。火回应着。树林之外，
另一段历史已然开启，朝着火焰走来。
枪声抢先抵达。
先于哀悼。
先于那句需要数十载才能说完的话。
那只鸡一直在转。
那只鸡一直在转。
那只鸡一直在转因为当历史进入房间时
双手已不知如何停止。因为饥饿在灾难中幸存。
因为即便许久之后世界变得面目全非
身体依然执行着古老的仪式。
祖母停顿了一下。
回忆却没有。
它跨越数十载，齿间依然夹着泥土的气息。挨着我在桌旁坐下。
我十一岁，我的膝盖挨着她的，
带着一份我不知道如何续写的传承。
窗外，一辆摩托车正在爬坡。
有人在窗后笑。
某处，电视机发出的蓝光映在窗帘上。
寻常的夜继续着。
夜幕下，另一个国度正在展开。
那只狗仍在守候。
烟仍在上升。
那只鸡一直在转在历史知晓自己的名字前
的最后一秒寻常的时光里。
多年后，她的椅子仍在桌旁，仿佛一个问题
活过了提出它的那张嘴。风扇仍在咔哒作响。时间仍在倒转。
某个夜晚我走到屋外，看着天空压向电线
与屋顶，心里想着那些被埋葬于路下的故事，
以及那些泥土无需口舌便能道出的名字。
又是，晚上八点。
不同的年份。
同样的时辰。
水泥地面渐渐冷却。
虫鸣此起彼伏。
最早的那簇星辰在黑暗中敞开自己的小伤口。
头顶上方，天空留着一份不可思议的档案，关于天气、距离、
以及那些没有幸存的见证者可以说出的东西。
脚下，大地继续着它比以往更为静谧的劳作，
守着言语无法道尽的一切，
守着历史无法承载的一切，守着每个逝去的身体的
轮廓
一如河流对石头的铭记
即便石头早已将河流遗忘。
Paola Lee 是来自菲律宾的写作者。其作品曾发表或即将发表于「Tint Journal」「Blue Marble Review」及「Eterna Journal」等处。
倾斜
作者：周爱华
倾斜，我任由倾斜
成为，今天的空茫
厨房里
芫荽的气味，和昨日瀑布般坠落
枯萎
然而，时间并没有停止参与
沉默和倾斜
镜像渐渐倒转
即将到来的午后，我们像
我们的父母
两个偶遇的影子
蹲踞，穿越某一角之气候动荡——
狼狈始终贯穿——剥离，倾斜
倾斜，我看见马铃薯的左上方
一种缓慢的疼痛
任由，一阵风吹向某种飘渺秩序
井然
越来越近，零落的砖，横着的日常
废弃物，像
潜在的流逝
任由
弧线，构成椭圆的意义
芫荽的叶与茎深陷彼此，难以拆解
周爱华，现居云南。
slant
translated by PLS
slant, i let the slant
become today’s void
from the kitchen
the scent of coriander and yesterday
descend like a cascade, withered
though time hasn’t ceased its participation
in silence and slanting
the mirror image tilts gradually
in the incoming afternoon, we
like our parents
two shadows encountering by chance
crouching to traverse the climatic turbulence of a corner—
the embarrassment is there all along—shadows stripped, slant
slant. i see over the top left of a potato
a slow pain
blown towards a blur by wind in perfect
order
and it’s getting closer and closer. scattered bricks, chaotic routines
the waste
a latent elapse
drawn into
an elliptic meaning by an arc
the leaves and stems of the coriander entangled, now inseparable
Zhou Aihua, currently lives in Yunnan.
Monkey Magic / Emetic Edens
After J. H. Prynne
by Kashif Sharma-Patel
I stand among the flowers, the rose petals wavering under humidity’s succour,
horses aging
O watermelon
bringer of frost
snow-addled reveries
clear waters run, blossoming peach
a cascade of luminosity
and azure shot along caravan routes
where floating clouds descend
O golden valley
the folds of screens do impart their languid stress
the mist ascending along rock-hewn hermitage
down through to the sea, an entering of
avuncular peroration, rapturous accordances
as the western journey takes flight – to Nalanda no less!
entering sea, mountain, frosted snow, desolate jungle –
Mokshadeva, folding screen / cascading inertia;
the inscription of information, causal function over matter;
meteoric rises found at home, dazed eyes,
eclipses for days, the age of capture – image and flame
fiery torment
limitless errancy
divagatory prolepsis
an extemporising of fuzz and slop
and ruinous inertia skimming off the scum
of that cosmic ocean
hinterlands of perennials and agarwood-drenched
garden patios
emetic edens burgeoning liquidity
ripe in celestial negation
a peremptory missive lost on voyages
silent in that glazed hold the call
of the slick void
the rose petals crushed
wafting in paradise
Kashif Sharma-Patel is a poet, writer, co-founding editor of the87press, and managing editor of The Hythe Review based in London and Tbilisi. Their debut collection is furnish, entrap (Broken Sleep Books, 2024).
猴王神通 / 令人作呕的伊甸
致敬 J. H. Prynne
翻译：诗验室
我伫于花丛中，玫瑰花瓣在潮气的滋养下微微颤动，
马老去
噢西瓜
携霜者
被雪搅乱的遐思
清水奔流，桃花盛开
一帘沿着商队
路线射出的明与蓝
那里浮云下压
噢金色山谷
屏风的褶皱着实透露它们慵懒的忧虑
雾沿着岩石凿成的隐居地上升
再往下冲入大海，进入
长者般慈祥的陈词，狂喜的共鸣
向西取经之旅已启动——直达那烂陀！
进入大海、山峦、霜雪、荒芜的丛林——
木叉提婆，折叠的屏风 / 泻下的惰性；
信息的铭刻，物质的因果函数；
本土的骤然崛起，茫然的眼神。
连日的黑暗，捕获的年代——图像与火焰
炽烈的煎熬
无限的错误
发散式的预辩
对模糊粗糙内容的即兴演绎
毁灭性的惰性 撇去那片宇宙
海洋的浮渣
多年生植物的腹地与弥漫着沉香
的花园露台
令人作呕的伊甸 蓬勃的流动性
在天体否定中成熟
一封在旅途中遗失的咄咄逼人的信函
在那玻璃货舱中沉默虚有其表的
空之召唤
玫瑰花瓣被碾碎
在天堂里飘荡
Kashif Sharma-Patel 是一名居住于伦敦与第比利斯两地的诗人、写作者、the87press 联合始创编辑兼「The Hythe Review」主编。Ta 们的第一本诗集为「furnish, entrap」（Broken Sleep Books, 2024)。
Dance Lesson
by Zixia Liu
Teaching us suspensions, my dance teacher liked to
demonstrate by pulling her arms towards her chest.
It’s simply about the transfer of energy:
air to skin, speaker to receiver, one person to another.
Draw them towards you. Hold them there,
like cradling a weight.
The evening her mother passed away, we practiced the routine
one last time, reaching our arms
while bending over one leg. The suspension held.
At the corner of the room, watching silently,
our teacher gathered her hands towards her heart.
She dimmed the lights.
The air thickens before pouring,
holding its breath.
How much courage it must take to hold
tears, daily, and not let them fall.
Zixia Liu lives in Shanghai. Her work has appeared in Eunoia Review, Voice & Verse Poetry Magazine, and elsewhere.
舞蹈课
翻译：诗验室
在教我们悬停动作时，舞蹈老师喜欢
通过把双臂拉至胸前来展示这个动作。
简单来说，它属于一种能量的转移：
从空气到皮肤、说者到听者、一个人到另一个。
“将它们引向你。搂住它们，
就像拥抱一团重量。”
她母亲去世的那晚，我们最后一次
练习了常规动作，伸展我们的双臂
将身体下压至站着的那只脚。悬停着。
在房间一角，老师安静地
看着，双手紧贴着胸口。
她将灯调暗。
空气变厚，继而涌出，
屏住呼吸。
一个人需要每天憋住泪，而不让它们
流出，得需要多大的勇气啊。
Zixia Liu 生活于上海，其作品散见于「Eunoia Review」「声韵诗刊」等处。
剥削影像
作者：侯素
剥削一个虚无的身体。柴枝捆的扫帚。经血图。胛骨。刀面。半月板。人的套子吸收梦。
骨肉血气，再慢一些，刻度旋转。针尖在时间的表面弹出一个弧度。
时间叫着，大地的钟面长出胡须。
心灵消瘦而信已古老。
更温和的血和有毒的光，更柔和的冷和物体的血，锻打胶片。怪色和乳汁，弧光和神血。胎盘车前子生汤煎服，方子的先例，混合水虱和蝉蜕。苦利尿。
神打乱了依据和前兆。生的引子是死的榨取。
侯素，广东鹤山人。
footage of exploitation
translated by PLS
to exploit an empty body. a broom made of brushwood. menstrual diagram. shoulder blades. knife face. meniscus. a human case that absorbs dreams.
flesh and blood, a bit slower, the scale turns. the needle-tip draws an arc across the surface of time.
time shrieks. a beard grows out of the dial.
souls are gaunt, though letters ancient.
warmer blood and toxic light, the milder cold and blood of objects, are forging films. strange colours and milk, arclight and divine blood. a placenta and plantain seeds decocted with water—the precedent of a prescription—mixed with water lice and cicada slough. the bitterness is diuretic.
gods disrupt the evidence and precursors. the prologue of the living is the exploitation of the dead.
Hou Su is from Heshan, Guangdong province.
Wonderful Yard
by Clara Bullock
Coming down the hill,
towards Underfall Yard (by the water),
I hear the hammer fall on metal,
I smell cold pints of cider.
I have a view of a sailing class
and the harbour master
circling in his motorboat.
French tourists speak about
the economy (or so I assume)
and the air smells of salt &
rotting fish. Waves slap
against the pier as I sip
sweet bubbles.
I sink back into my body,
my skirt billowing
around my ankles, the sun
prickling on my neck as I bend
over my notebook.
I remember to breathe.
I toss the rest over the railing.
Clara Bullock is a poet and music journalist. She edits the poetry zine Good Bones.
美丽船厂
翻译：诗验室
从山上下来，
往安德弗尔船厂（靠水一侧）方向走，
我可以听见锤子砸向金属的声音，
闻到冰镇苹果酒的气味。
看见眼前有人正上着帆船课
还有在汽船上
巡逻的港务长。
法国游客们讨论着
经济（我猜八九不离十）
空气中弥漫着盐
和腐鱼的味道。海浪拍打着
码头而我正吮吸着
清甜的气泡饮品。
我沉入自己的身体，
裙子在
脚踝处飘着，阳光
趁我将头埋向笔记本时
轻扎我的颈。
我还记得呼吸。
把剩下的都扔向护栏另一边。
Clara Bullock 是一名诗人兼音乐记者。她编辑诗歌小志「Good Bones」。
专政
作者：强尼
忘记着好多事情发展的过程，快活就生出来像团狂妄的火。
什么与为什么像两把刀子。
愚蠢地泛着亮晶晶好似垃圾的鳞片。
所有的疑问——尽可不说。
恨与不恨也没什么重要地沉重地舞在肩膀上面。
迎风就哭泣地啪嗒啪嗒。
也似纸牌堆一样狂乱地转个没完。
如果——如果。
我们都一齐放下武器，努力吻别伤人的修辞。
今朝之后世界酒尽干而或许和平。
流完了体液的男人与女人尊重起对方的地位而不再说。
说这样的爱，那样的负担。
说主义把一切都束缚而信仰不再所有的所有只是模仿。
像闻风而动一样迷乱地盲动。
一切会不会好一些。
有时——有时，我会想着这些事情。
转眼之间想起我朋友的刀子或许只是为了提醒我不要骄傲。
提醒我的肚皮，我的眼睛。
不可以那么狂妄也不可以那样放松。
可社会的无端险恶平地而起，无聊无聊无聊无聊无聊无聊！
我渴望专政把一切都平等！
强尼，工厂工人，现居哈尔滨。
tyranny
translated by PLS
joy starts like an arrogant flame, as you forget the development of many things.
what and why are like two knives.
blunt with scales glittering like rubbish.
all doubts—uttered as little as possible.
hatred or not, unimportantly and sluggishly waves above the shoulder.
and weeps patteringly against the wind.
sometimes spinning arbitrarily like a stack of cards.
if—if.
we all unarm, and try to kiss mean rhetoric goodbye.
from now on the world will exhaust its wine though perhaps stay peaceful.
the climaxed man and woman will start respecting each other and stop saying.
saying this kind of love, that kind of burden.
saying isms constrain everything and no more beliefs everything is but a parody.
moving in befuddlement, just as acting without delay.
will everything be slightly better.
sometimes—sometimes, i think of these things.
think of how my friend’s knife is just here to remind me to stay humble.
to remind my belly, and my eyes.
to not be too arrogant nor let my guard down.
though the unwarranted evils of society rise out of nowhere, boring boring boring boring boring boring.
i long for a tyranny that equalises everything.
Qiang Ni, a factory worker who currently lives in Harbin.
The Signal*
by Gabriele Micozzi
Yibin, January. They did not mean to catch her.
That is the first thing.Nobody went out that morningto hold the last one.
She had been in that river,in one shape or another,since before there were flowers.
They fixed a transmitter behind the fin
and carried her to the Nanxiand let her go,and got into the boat to follow,
because for once
somebody was going to watch.
The dot moved. They wrote down the time.
The dot moved. They wrote down the time.
Then the river turned.There is hard rock under the Nanxi.
The sound went into the stoneand did not come out.
Not a death. Not a body.A dot that stopped being a dot.
Four men over a small screen at nightsaying wait, saying it will come back,saying give it a minute—which is the same word in your language and in mine
for what people do
in the hour after the thing is already over.
*The Chinese paddlefish was declared extinct by the IUCN in 2022. The last one seen alive was accidentally caught, tagged and released near Yibin in January 2003; the signal was lost within hours. — Zhang et al., Science of the Total Environment, 2020.
Gabriele Micozzi is an Italian poet, professor and researcher in ethical models of communication. His work has appeared in Asymptote, Strange Horizons, The Ecological Citizen and more.
信号*
翻译：诗验室
宜宾，一月。他们并非故意要去捕她。
这是第一个重点。
那天早上没有人出门
去守住最后一只。
自那条河有花以前，
她就一直在河里，
以某种形式存在。
他们在鱼鳍后装了个定位发射器
并将她送到南溪
然后放了她，
随后上船跟踪，
因为现在终于
有人愿意观测她了。
那个点动了。他们写下时间。
那个点动了。他们写下时间。
然后河水翻滚。
南溪底下有硬岩。
那声音进入石头
此后再没有出来。
没有死亡。没有尸体。
一个不再是一个点的点。
四个人在夜里盯着一个小屏幕
说等等，说它会回来，
说再等一会儿——
这句话在你的语言里跟我的一样
人们通常会在
事情结束后一小时内这么说。
*长江白鲟已于2022年被世界自然保护联盟（IUCN）正式宣布灭绝。2003年，最后一位有记录的野生白鲟在四川宜宾南溪江段被渔民误捕，经救治后放归长江。追踪信号于数小时后中断。——张辉博士等人，《整体环境科学》
Gabriele Micozzi 是一位意大利诗人、教授及传播伦理模式研究者，其作品曾发表于「Asymptote」「Strange Horizon」及「The Ecological Citizen」等处。
Anwesenheit
作者：哈诺
源于德语，意为“在场”，一种对陌生存在的虚假感知。（《精神病学术语索引》）
你说，在七月这样失真的时日，除了捕捉，还有什么事好做？蝴蝶、野兔与晚风。WiFi信号、时机与光影。或宝可梦。你看，我们的手是虚拟的手，向绿色像素草地掷出一颗完美的精灵球：目标砸中，几枚金色的五角星（并非真的火星）弹跳，反重力地升空、挣扎着晃动（暗示被困住的生灵），然后停驻。振奋的音乐（可疑地）从世界的背景中响起。你太知道这意味着什么：捕获成功。
粗糙、柔软、温热、濡湿。从失落的镜中牵起，那出现在废弃公园、漂浮在躁热中、在假山的阴影里抚摸彼此、颤抖着、恐惧与羞耻共存、滑向腰间、承诺着什么的，两只手。你的手？（我在对谁说话？）小心，必须时时提醒自己：那不是连结：在这里，一切都是回握：病树的枝桠伸向自身的中空：只是某种顽固的证据：一块栓塞。一个空格。一次缺席。
哈诺，现工作生活于西安。
Anwesenheit
translated by PLS
originates from German, referring to the false perception of an unfamiliar presence. (Glossary of Psychiatry, Wikipedia)
you said, in a distorted season such as July, what else is there to be done, other than a capture? butterflies, wild rabbits and the evening breeze. wifi signal, timing, light and shadow. or Pokemon. look, we have virtual hands, throwing a perfect Poke Ball across a field of green pigment: target hit, a few golden stars (not real Mars) bounce up, rising against gravity, shuddering in struggle (referring to trapped beings), and stop. the cheerful music (suspiciously) arises from the background of the world. you know too well what this means: the capture has succeeded.
coarse, soft, lukewarm, soaked. out of a sorrowful mirror you take, the showing up in an abandoned park, floating in the heat, caressing each other in the shadow of a rockery, shivering in fear and shame, slipping to the waist, promising pair of hands. are they yours? (who am i speaking to?) watch out, one must always remind oneself: that’s not a connection: here, everything is but a hand that clutches its inner self: the branch of a sick tree stretches into its inner hollow: just some implacable evidence: a piston. a blank space. an absence.
Ha Nuo currently lives and works in Xi’an.
The Son & The Grids
by Ghazal Mosadeq
(a loose translation of a grid of spells in Persian)
twenty-one unknown seeds
grow in all directions
all ejecting me
birds
come together
related in a way
all avalanches are
copies of each other
all eyes deceive detectors
and all pedigree related lies
are no more than twelve or thirteen
yet we never got a handle of them
these all said by Luminatoala, I guess
and he said
eyes staring me down
he says non, he says think, he says break bread
with both the deceiver and the deceived, and
put a grape under your tongue
speak the Mantiq Al-Shorb, the logic of intoxication
and stay alive
this performance takes place in darkness
he says listen to the son of the son of the son of the son of the son
of my son
dead far from home
far from my dusty tomb
poisoned to death
by a grape
under his tongue
he spoke the language of truth
in all its forms
the son of the son of the son of the son of the son of my son says
there is no pain inside the human body
and if there is, why not uproot it
he says if you want more, and if not, why not?
try to live longer
try
drink tea made of chicory leaves
he says Kāsni, and looks at the green
that multiplies the green
the green that multiplies in the green all offspring of each other
the green of the green of the green of the green of the green of the green of
my green
and the green says something along the lines
of the crowd
the crowd of the
we need cerebral remedies
then on the next grid
the Abuskholafi says to the son of the son of his son
about asymmetrical harmonies hate being taken
days
think they are holding the shoulders of nights and
parents fear the death of their children and volcanoes
he says go to my son and assure him his son will always live
in terror of demise
every day one hundred penitents. seek forgiveness one hundred times every day. his son would see. and in the mornings seventy times. and hundred and seventy times in the evenings. استغفرالله . more penitence. and more. these acts have been done. and people may have children. and they might live. look at my son and ask him what he is doing outside at dusk with that tiny moon hanging among the branches. or is it a lamppost flashing frail silver flames? your son I say to myself, asks for redemption but does he ever think?
and they say no green on earth more noble and honourable than the green she wears.
a soft moist mass of turnip seeds
poultices your pain
the weakness of your groin
the fact
that any seed as green as her dress
hides inside it
till cultivation
till growth
I plead for white walnut.
cinnamon. white cumin. thistle-green.
the weight of each. you grind them. divide them into five.
mix them with egg yolk. understand them. have them before breakfast.
five days. and avoid obvious deceit. for five days.
can you?
A remedy for calamities
and affliction
pray
two rakats. ask for what you wish seventy times a day
till this silence quiets. say
ya absar naseen
ya ahsab hasebeen
us and pain
undisguisable
are you with me?
anyone dead yet?
so life has been good. and the green has been there. and I lived too long. my son grew old and died. and the tiny gleaming thing among the branches shrank inside its cells. my son, a cut above the moon. I warned him not to stain the dusk. don’t choke on a grape. read what I say one hundred and seventy times. it involves all of me. you always say something. before your sneeze. I say.
Ghazal Mosadeq writes in Persian and English. She is the founder of Pamenar Press, her writings have been published by Tamaas Foundation, Poetry Wales, The Stand Magazine, and many more.
儿子与幻方：对一个波斯幻方的意译
翻译：诗验室
二十一颗未知的种子
向四面八方生长
全都在驱逐我
众鸟
以某种关联
聚到一处
所有的雪崩都是
对彼此的复制
所有的眼神都在欺骗侦察者
那些关于血统的谎言
不过十二三种
可我们从未理解它们
这些都为卢明纳托拉所言，我猜
然后他说
双眼瞪着我
他说“不”，他说“想”，他说“与欺骗者和
被欺骗者和平共处”，然后
“在舌头下方放一颗葡萄
说祝酒辞”
然后“继续生活”
这一表演在暗中进行
他说“倾听我的儿子的儿子的儿子的儿子
的儿子
在遥远的异乡死去
离我尘封的墓碑很远
被一颗埋在
他舌下的葡萄
活活毒死
他说真理的语言
以其所有的形式”
“我的儿子的儿子的儿子的儿子的儿子的儿子说
人的体内没有痛苦
若有，为何不将它连根拔起”
他说“如果你想要更多，如果不，为何不？
试试活得更久一些
试试”
“喝菊苣叶制成的茶”
他说“菊苣”，然后看着那片让绿色
繁殖的绿
那片在绿中繁殖的绿 彼此的所有后代
我的绿色的绿色的绿色的绿色的绿色的绿色
的绿色
以及那片沿着人群的队伍
说着什么的绿
__ 的人群
我们需要治疗大脑的药
然后在下个幻方
阿布什科拉菲对他的儿子的儿子的儿子说
关于不对称协调 被带走的恨
白日
以为自己搭着夜的肩膀
家长们担心自己的子女死去和火山
他说去找我儿子并向他保证他儿子将一直活下去
在对死亡的恐惧面前
每天有一百名忏悔者。每天寻求宽恕一百次。他的儿子应该会看到。每天早上七十次。每天晚上一百七十次。استغفرالله。更多的忏悔。更多。这些行为已被完成。有人可能有儿女。他们可能活下去。看看我的儿子问问他在枝头挂着月牙的黄昏在外面做什么。还是只是一盏路灯闪着微弱的银光？你的儿子我对自己说，寻求救赎但他曾经考虑过吗？
然后他们说大地上没有一种绿比她穿的绿更崇高与光荣。
一团柔软而湿润的芜菁籽
敷在你的疼痛上
你腹股沟的无力
所有跟她裙子一样绿的种子
都躲在其中
直至播种
直至生长
的事实
我乞求获得灰胡桃。
肉桂。白孜然。蓟绿。
它们每一样的重量。你碾碎它们。将其分成五份。
与蛋黄一起搅拌。理解它们。在早餐前吃掉它们。
五天。避免明显的诡计。连续五天。
你可以吗？
一种治疗灾难和煎熬
的药
祈祷
两拜。每天许愿七十次
直至沉默静止。说
“ya absar naseen”
“ya ahsab hasebeen”
我们与痛苦
无法掩饰的
你还在吗？
有人死了吗？
日子还算过得去。那种绿一直都在。我活太久了。我的儿子变老并死去。在树枝间闪着微光的小东西在它的细胞中萎去。我的儿子，月亮上方的一道伤口。我警告过他不要玷污黄昏。不要被一颗葡萄咽住。将我说的话读一百七十遍。它包含了我的所有。你总是说些什么。在打喷嚏前。我说。
Ghazal Mosadeq 用波斯语和英语写作。她是独立出版社 Pamenar Press 的创始人，其作品散见于「Poetry Wales」「The Stand Magazine」及「Changes Review」等处。
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Cover Photography 封面摄影 © Yuan
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