Summer in China has its own texture and colour scheme. Not elusive at all.
But this certain morning there was a certain shade of pink from a certain water lily in front of my house.
Even morning air is thick, and warm like the sun in the heart of an egg yoke compressed in the stone of a fruit.
There is a non-stop whirring.
Ingredients: cicada singing, the utter quietness of the sun.
The palette: tired grey yellowish plants. Tomatoes, sweet peppers.
Then there’s a water lily.
Something Chinese people love to quote to describe people:
Translation (tried to do it in iambic pentameter… ignore the last line? ;D):
It’s born and raised from in the mud, but ne’er
Was it contaminated; Rests upon
Clean gleaming water, yet basks not in its
Beauty like Narcissus.
— “An Ode to Lotus Flowers” Chou Dunyi
And lastly a poem that I’ve come to love. It’s almost August, people!
Federico Garcia Lorca
August. The opposing of peach and sugar, and the sun inside the afternoon like the stone in the fruit. The ear of corn keeps its laughter intact, yellow and firm. August. The little boys eat brown bread and delicious moon.