Path to Hell

"We've got Temple Street, Lantern Street
Rice Street, Buddha Street,
Street of the Blooming Peonies,
But hey, little sparrow,
Isn't there a street...
Where they would buy corpses?"
Amidst the red poppies -
He and the bird,
Went off in pursuit of the family altar
And disappeared without a trace,
All alone, headed to Hell.

In midst of the his hair
Untwisted, tied-
Were the flowers of the funeral.
A pilgrim rings his bell in Avici,
As I go to bury the comb —
There's only wind howling over the mountain.
The needles have grown rusty in the needlebox,
The red yarn is gone,
And the rift remains unstitched.
Rubbing and polishing the family altar,
Washing it all day, sparkling-
Until it shines to reflected the bleeding eyeball,
And the soil gets soggy with his blood.

In the falling twilight,
As the waves crash
Onto the desolate rocks,
A bell tolls afar.
Where have they buried...
The comb.
"From the Kingdom of the Dead
Wherein you're resting,
Come forth into this world of ours".
The red poppies bloom like a tide of blood.

Corpses lie scattered; about
The wind beaten hearth.
One wrecked path to Avici
The blackest of all hells.
Sliced and torn apart,
They wail in grimace
As the red poppies bloom,
Near the gates to purgatory.

He is a cursed child,
The red comb snaps into bits,
As the old clock incessantly
Clangs in the dust.
Dead crows and-
Parcels full of severed heads
Lie about the dusty floor.
All alone does he
Fall into hell, the hell
Of utter darkness, where
No flowers bloom.

The flame like flowers of red poppies
Cast into rapid waters-
Sacrificed to the gurgling darkness.
I shall cut off my eyelids to see better,
The razor blade reflects the horizon.
I roam about endlessly
Through the desolate grasses.
The clock is up for sale-
But no one is willing to buy it
I carry it in my arms across the somber plain.

Cold and frosty winds,
Shivering and utter lamentation,
Blistered limbs, bloodied.
A blue lotus in full bloom,
The cracks, raw and bloody.
His intestines, spill
Onto the blazing ground.
Flesh pierced with blood-red pins,
Mauled with iron claws; his
Eyeballs glisten in the dark.

A bloody procession of many poppies
Born one after the another in the family hell,
On the slopes of the mountain strewn with old clocks.
Why doesn't he hurry up and die?
Sing, all of you, birds of heaven and hell !
And put him to sleep without end.
Cry, sparrow bird-
And make him fall into eternal sleep
Before they cast him away in the mountains.

What do they do in the next world,
All the lost ones.
The ones abandoned and killed.
Their eyes are forever tearful
They haul their heavy stones with their bleeding hands
Beside the dried up river
Ceaselessly they build a tower
Which rises into the sky.

His limbs-
Scored and sliced,
Crushed to pulp.
He sits crouched, on
The blazing soil, splashed
With deathly torpor.
His wailing desperation, echoes
Through the realms of purgatory.

This must be the night
When the finger prints I've left on the gravestone-
Curdle into clots of blood.
I point north with a burning stake,
And he follows the smoke.
The sky is dark and there is no longing for home.

He's a child of misfortune-
A blue lotus
Blooming in the hell of the house.
The family register is gone.
As I stitch torn faces together,
With a red yarn-
He vomits blood,
Wandering through Avici all alone.

。。。。