The Silent Dead

Manchuria has long springs and endless winters,

Memories like the starry sky,

Blurry when stared at directly, yet clear when looking away.

Time and space interweave, forming a net, like a dream or a bubble,

Love and hate wrestle, covered in dust, falling into slaughter,

The old do not want to recall, their muddy eyes hiding fire,

The children cannot explain, their agonizing stomachs cry hunger,

Those outside are silent, waiting for us to die out,

Those inside are vague, waiting for us to be extinguished.

We also wait, waiting for a rescue that cannot come,

Or a release that is destined to arrive.

Six hundred thousand skeletons are piled as high as a mountain, like the peaks of Changbai Mountain,

The liquid from rotting corpses dyes the Yitong River as black as the Heilong River.

We came from the White Mountains and Black Waters, we return to the White Mountains and Black Waters.

They want us to forget who we are,

They do not let others remember that we existed,

They tell us we are them, and they are us,

So when we die, they will live well for us.

The silent dead, with only the thunder of the cracking earth,

Swallowing the remains of hundreds of thousands of people,

Turning into smoke and fire, turning into dust, scattered across the fields,

Becoming golden soybeans, red sorghum, green water, white snow, and black soil.

Every atom of those remains eventually condenses back into human form,

Becoming us, and will become our children and grandchildren,

We know who we are,

We don’t need others to tell us,

We are those white bones, that liquid from corpses,

We do not die, do not perish, do not forget, do not forgive.

Until the heavenly fire of justice burns through this black prison,

Until the karma of samsara redeems all beings in the six realms,

Do not go gentle into that good night again,

Beat the Octagonal Drum, sing a song of the ancient gods,

A winter sleep that is not too long,

Open your eyes, rise up and eat and drink.