一朵带刺的玫瑰

一朵带刺的玫瑰

A Thorn Rose

Sometimes a flamecolored, scentless rose would hold me arrested. I stood gazing at it as if I could not understand it. I went to a little seat among the roses, and sat down. I sat quite still, feeling my own existence lapse. I am no more than a rose, a rose that cannot quite come into blossom, but still remain tense and my thorn. A little fly dropped on my lap, on my aubergine dress. I watched it,  as if it had fallen on a rose. I was not myself.

Xi Lan Zhang-Wilhelm

15.06.2016