By Amon (2025.2.5)
Nature endows man with a clay-carved frame,
Yet man relies on God—
That inconceivable Beyond—
Who breathes into nostrils a wisp of life, tearing through chaos.
The eternal confinement, meant to be,
Screams a piercing wail in an instant.
A life is born, a spark of inspiration blooms—
Chaos suffers the pangs of birth,
Yet nurtures the seed of independent thought.
A man awakens, still unaware,
Already bound by notions of good, evil, and blurred lines—
Ideas, rules, and measures draw circles around him.
Whatever judgment or appraisal
Spoken through another’s lips
Acts like the hand of God,
Shaping him (her),
Unbeknownst,
Ignorant of prejudice, sin, fairness, or justice.
From nothingness to existence—
From one cage into another,
Yet man never ceases to resist.
Even when the conscious stifles the subconscious,
Even when the illusion before him
Grows so vivid it becomes the accepted truth,
The discontent etched in his genes, the unwillingness,
The restless urge to seek the real,
Never stops urging—
Compelling him to act, now, immediately—
To step out of the cave, to halt the meaningless churn within,
To know, to grasp the sun.
Ah, yes,
Once the still lake breaks its silence,
The flowing water cannot be held back—
It will surely swell into a river.
From then on, man refuses stagnation,
Thought knows no bounds,
Consciousness surges forth,
Upward, ever upward.
Apr 27, 2025
Apr 27, 2025 at 9:34 PM UTC
by Ameng (2025.1.23)
(I)
Boredom soaks through my soul;
Dullness gnaws at my marrow.
Nothing holds meaning—
I only feel the world upturned,
Like a glass contraption—
The embodiment of time,
That flustering hourglass
In league with illusion and absurdity,
Seeking to grind me down, to crush me,
Till I become dust, a grain of sand,
Scattered into the unreal fiction
Of an abstract yet concrete existence,
Now but a mayfly devoured by time.
(II)
Neither forward nor back,
Segmented cause and effect weave events,
Splintering the whole of me,
Yet piecing me together in fragments.
In the void,
Time flows through my fading body,
Then swirls back in the ebb of consciousness.
(III)
Ah, this dull, hollow boredom—
It spreads, it swells.
Where is that joy,
Born deep within soul and spirit,
Rippling unbidden?
Trapped in a cage,
Upon the tower where time splinters and events converge,
How can I seize the fleeting spark of inspiration
Before it fades into deathly silence?
And how can I be sure my search from this tower
Is real, and not just a fleeting dream?
Ah, this hollow boredom…
Apr 26, 2025
Apr 26, 2025 at 8:31 PM UTC
by Amon（2025.1.15）
I am in love with speech,
and expression unchained, unfettered—
though I may stay silent for years, listening but never speaking,
lips pressed tight,
letting no flat tone escape my mouth.
Yet I know
my heart, my soul
will never lie to me.
I am in love with freedom—with pouring out thoughts,
with words, with grammar, with emotion,
and with lively, lilting cadence,
fluent and fervent in debate and speech.
All I want
is to say all that needs saying.
All I want
is to talk unbound by external rules—
nothing more.
But truly,
I must confess:
I love speech because I love freedom;
I love freedom for what it carries—
that innate right granted with our first breath.
Apr 25, 2025
Apr 25, 2025 at 8:29 PM UTC