THE BOOKS OF THE ORIGINAL ROLE Poem by ZANG DI

Years ago my body missed me.
This shouldn't have happened, but in fact,
did, many times. My body is my miracle,
which sounds presumptuous, but what I was thinking
was how miracles constrain my freedom, and even
constitute another form of corruption. My body hanging there,
like a ripe apple that could fall at any time.
You know, if it strikes you on your head by chance
the world will probably crack open, awakening.
I lay on my side on the grass, surrounded by the thoughts
of summer insects. I like things with a rhythm.
On the grass, the insects thought rhythmically without tuning.
Following that rhythm, it seemed as if I'd seized
fate by its Achilles' heel.
I'd brought a half-bottle of wine, the beef jerky I was chewing
full of the yak's life. I was grinding down my own body
that would not miss me anymore. My body
was once the three yaks who had just emerged from the valley.
There, the snow-streams on the Aba were like clear strings
that had melted the memory of hard granite stones.
My body missed me, meaning that from the beginning
my body was a composition of bodies
from a man and the one who returns from death.
They've brought me joys that contradicted each other like the truth.
However, what is blind is never the body itself.
You know, I could have explained this much better.