A Haibun for Vladimir Nabokov
I hate hearing myself speaking English. My voice sounds inhuman... mechanical. In the strain of translating a Chinese word into its English equivalent, the spontaneity and natural quality of my speech are lost. I feel that I'm falling out of the tightly knit fabric of emotional vocabulary into a hole-filled net of linguistic signifiers.
April snow...
not a word passes over
my tongue
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem