207th Bone

In this poetry collection written by the Chinese poet Zhou Li (¿¿), the poems have no title and are only separated by blank lines. This doesn't seem to be the author's deliberate arrangement; he just let the poems be what they are. Much like a person's daily life: every day, week, month or year that passes does not have a definite theme, but this does not hinder every day from becoming every day and every year becoming every year. The days we spend may be happy, depressing, painful, empty, or even despairing. So are these poems; their existence is their meaning. They are not higher or lower than life itself.



It is a personal book, like a spiritual conversation with oneself, or short records of life and emotional fragments in the passage of time; it is some secret part of a person, suitable for reading when one feels sad, or on rainy days, nights, or when suffering from insomnia, and so forth-you will easily find resonation. You will see a man's desires, love, confusion, puzzles in life, and even politics. The poems are sorrowful and despairing; fortunately, they are also very light. You can pick the book up at any time, open any page to start reading, and then put it down any time. Perhaps it can also be said that these poems are our "unbearable lightness of being."