HISTORY OF DAFFODILS, A BOOK SERIES Poem by ZANG DI

The aftershocks continue in Fukushima. Half the earth
is gradually drawn into the whirlpool of truth,
unclear of what's ethically far or near in further turmoil
that overflows the bubbles of fate to the edge of life.
But these yellow daffodils remain absolutely still.
Or they move like the spines of dinosaurs, dynamically static.
They choose to bloom in April, like us
when we sometimes try to race against time.
(Very often you like to race against me, no need to shy away.)
They look like green onions but they are not for eating—
they are prepared for being looked at. They are prepared
for us to see the different us.
Sometimes I go much further than loneliness,
I see you spit to nothingness,
which makes me aware of what these daffodils have done
to the history of ours. Their history is not how they were planted,
or distributed, but a series of records of what's blossomed on you
as we saw at a certain time. They indeed have brought us
from behind the history to the front of time.
I will not apologize for not being enthusiastic enough.
I will only apologize for not being subtle enough.
Let's make it here in Kanazawa then. Here
a remoteness allows me to walk into their history.
Let it be, this deep way. Let it be, the way we look at their movement.
They see us from where we have never been, the same way
that we, in their absence, see their spirit
tranquil in the enormous shadows of reality.