Sam

The Heart is a Rain-Leaking Clay Jar

Right now, I’m a damp piano key,

curved in silence through the sleepless dark.

Each rib tarnished with rust,

while fireflies nest in my throat,

migrating down the staff of an old song.

You said a monsoon swept through your chest—

but forgot that every rainy season

leaves the same fingerprints.

When moonlight begins to spin its thread,

what flees, curls, or swells

crystallizes into salt

at the chorus’s bend.

So gather these restless wild grains.

If the heart is a jar that leaks rain,

then let melody seep through its cracks,

steeping the universe

into a cup of waking, aged oolong.

(And let every noisy wing

fold quietly into the tea,

settling slowly

into light.)

此刻我是一截潮濕的琴鍵
在無人彈奏的深夜獨自彎曲
每根肋骨都在生長銅鏽
而喉嚨飼養的螢火蟲
正沿著老歌的五線譜遷徙

你說胸腔裡有季風過境
卻忘了所有雨季都長著
相同的指紋。當月光開始紡紗
那些逃竄的、蜷縮的、膨脹的
都在副歌轉彎處結成鹽晶

請收留這些不安的稗穀吧
既然心本就是漏雨的陶罐
就讓旋律從裂縫漫出
把整個宇宙沖泡成
一杯正在甦醒的陳年烏龍

（收攏所有噪響的羽翼
在茶湯裡慢慢
沉澱成光）