—To the Souls of the Deceased Children of Gaza
Opening the newspaper, a jarring headline stabs my eyes —
“Disaster within disaster”: three thousand seven hundred and sixty children dead in Gaza;
Scrolling through a friend’s WeChat, furious verses ignite my heart:
“Blood‑sea within blood‑sea”: generations upon generations of hatred perpetuate in Gaza.
I now call back Mr. Eliot, the poet of a past century,
Should there arise a poet whose lecture hall is the battlefield?
I summon Yevtushenko, author of Mama and the Atomic Bomb,
I ask: Are you still travelling where berries grow everywhere?
I know the battlefield is no basketball court; a poet’s words hold little power.
Humans dart like frantic ants. Has revenge become some people’s excuse for slaughter?
I know invisible fire‑nets spread across the sky, fangs of technology bared.
Drones are no flies; peace has turned into an unforeseen worry.
How can I ever find your three thousand seven hundred and sixty young souls?
All I see are a few elderly women clad in orange in alleyways.
How can I comfort your surviving playmates there?
All I hear is the barking of some dog echoing in stairwells.
I once dreamed of a hundred possible tap‑dance lives for one human being.
Writers there are composing how to stay suspended amid the whirlpool.
I once concluded that anyone’s fate may go off‑target at any moment,
Yet your parents stand in long queues just for a piece of flatbread.
Beneath the sun, I study with children how butterflies take flight.
Have your souls turned into paper cut‑out figurines?
With friends from Taiwan, I play island‑themed games.
Have your souls sought out the White‑Horse Guanyin?
A madwoman asks: Is there real‑name registration for hell?
Ah, I believe every one of you bears a name, a given name.
My gifted daughter says: There is no hell — only the human world.
Ah, I believe you shall be the true witnesses.
The very first composition in life bears a name given by parents.
Your first catastrophe: graveyards become your hometown.
At Xinyuntai Middle School by the sea, I lecture on the humanistic essence of writing;
Through the telescope atop the Oriental Pearl Tower, I gaze afar toward Gaza.
Clouds stretch boundless. How may I pierce the thick mist to behold you?
In which corner lies this war‑torn battlefield!
Wails rise on every side. How may I cross space to reach you?
How many more souls perish amid the roar of guns and blazing fires!
I am not composing poetry. Who could find poetry in news reports?
“Fish that rides a bicycle” — accepting an oracle, I lay down my pen.
I am not crafting prose. I stare numbly at a photograph from Gaza.
Late‑life highlight: a writer cannot bring himself to broach this theme.
This is not an age where war engulfs everything, yet cruelty still lingers.
I seek our true spirit in music, philosophy and poetry.
Why cannot benevolence and justice preside over our world?
Plato, Confucius, Muhammad — where are your podiums?
People discuss how humanity may escape the Anthropocene crisis.
One writer penned: “Man sits on the edge of the world, smiling.”
I confer with AI, searching for new possibilities.
“The world is snowing whole‑heartedly,” I make this proclamation.
River Jordan, Dnieper River, weep day and night; the Yellow River hears their lament.
The United Nations flies its flag at half‑mast — today, this very day, my children!
Gaza City, Al‑Shifa Hospital, refugee camps — Shanghai knows your pain.
I see a little girl on a subway carriage rocking a wooden hobby‑horse chair.
Children, I dream of the 114 UN uncles and aunts;
Of a boulder centuries‑old standing on a high plateau torn by gales.
Children, every grain of sand in Gaza cries out. I dream
Of our green transparent planet assailed by tempests of wind, rain and lightning.
What a montage: bulldozers topple Arafat’s statue.
He once signed the peace accord between Palestine and Israel together with Rabin.
What a stream‑of‑consciousness: the word “Liberation” blazes on your forefathers’ banner.
I once debated with my brother, a former soldier, the necessity and meaning of national liberation.
Some would write history as conquerors,
Becoming machines of war, claiming every stone for themselves.
Some seek to erase eternity. As killers,
They dictate others’ destinies, acknowledging no soul at all.
Absurdity, O mankind! How can I keep silent in reason!
Gaza, Gaza — what unfolds there is truly unprecedented.
Absurdity, O mankind! How could I drive sharp iron nails?
Gaza, Gaza — some souls vanish without leaving a trace.
Once more I call back the great poets of the twentieth century.
O Eliot, listen, listen to this child’s voice:
“I do not wish to see this world. I would rather die with Mother.”
We never get to grow up. Is this not a spiritual trial for poets?
Once more I summon the poet who wrote Mama and the Atomic Bomb.
Mr. Yevtushenko, your “berries everywhere” symbolises peace.
