Back To The Future｜2025/2026

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Water boils upon the stove,

unmindful of the cold rain drifting in the bitter wind.

If the past fades to nothing,

is memory still necessary?

Time may fill the void of trivial days,

only imagination dawns as the twilight of the future.

Stories beaten and tempered time and again,

thoughts twisted out of shape,

all that recedes slowly sinks into oblivion.

Emptiness erodes kindness,

blood surges wild within the flesh,

the heartbeat echoing hollow and desolate.

A glimmering line beneath the feet tethers the distant moon.

Night glows like day, and someone walks upon the luminous thread—

free to reach its end,

or soar unbound across the night sky.

All hidden wishes,

the untamable recklessness of life,

once strove toward moonlight,

once tasted the freedom of weightless flight.

Those moments are a past unrecreatable,

a glory forever ungraspable in memory.

Two souls grow weary amid a kiss,

indifference breeding endless speculation.

All know desire renews itself endlessly,

bearing an untamable, unyielding force.

It stems not from slackening flesh,

nor fading wit.

All arises from pure imagination.

Lay down your burdens for a while,

step away from the mire and swirling vortex.

Our arms cannot embrace infinity,

time lingers only for a fleeting while.

The boiled water has turned cold,

the cold rain softens, drifting upward into the void.

The world dissolves into boundless white haze.

Seasons repeat without surprise or wonder,

pale beside the stirring fervor of bygone days.

Springs run dry, green canopies wither brown,

stars dim, sun and moon lose their glow.

Only an ancient body lingers,

carrying the weight of centuries past—

cold, lifeless, void of all warmth to touch.

And the one who once existed?

Vanished into the withered yellow of imagination.

Water boils, then turns cold again,

leaving nothing but empty meaning.

I let the withered hues remain,

to witness how imagination devours itself.

A giant hand holds sharp scissors,

knowing precisely when and how to cut the thread.

There will come a moment—

a crisp, sharp snap.

The withered tones and I shall bear witness together:

to who severs the tedious passage of time.

It is a loss absolute and complete,

as though eyes, ears, nose all perish,

as though life itself fades away,

utterly and entirely.

Zhu Wei