I am a ‘97 Nissan March 1.0 5MT. My owner calls me junior.

I can remember the day when he came to claim me from the second-hand dealers, when i was all bright and shiny, and all ready for a final lease of life before old tired me gets sent to the scrapyard. My owner professes to be a manual lover, and he drives like one. Ever since the day he bought me, he has had a thing for shifting my gears rapidly and flooring the gas.

I like my owner. He never dragged my gears (until of late, that is, and most of the dragging was done by his dad or his friends. Can you imagine driving at 3rd gear until you reach 80 km/h?!) He always switched from 2nd to 3rd gear at a nice 30 km/h, and from 3rd to 4th at a comfortable 45 km/h. I never had to endure the high-revving which many manual cars had to go through. Up til of late, he also believed in using engine braking to stop (until he discovered that fuel prices were rising, i fancy.)

At first, he never gave me a bath, until i think his father coerced him into giving me one, or when he noticed one day that i was getting all dusty and disgusting. And then he gave me a bath. It was his very first attempt at washing a car by himself…and what can i say? He’s not a professional, because i’m never 100% clean but i like my showers! At least i come out feeling cleaner and fresher, especially since he sprays every nook and cranny, washing out things like brake dust out of my wheels.

We had an accident the other day. It cost my boss one glorious grand to get me repaired, and for the reparations. He was following a lorry too closely on a wet day, and the lorry jammed its brakes. The rest is history. However, he handled it really coolly and even drove me into town before calling his parents! THAT’S playing it cool. In fact, after that, he even fetched a hot girl home!

Speaking of the hot girl, she became my boss-lady. Unfortunately, she doesn’t know how to drive manual, and she used to say how cars like mine would become a thing of the past. How depressing! Thank goodness the boss likes to drive a manual. Sometimes, however, he takes mizz red (that’s his mother’s car) out with her, so that she can get some road practice. It’s okay. It simply means that i have a lazy evening to myself.

The boss would drive my boss-lady home in the evenings, and they’d spend time outside her house, talking and whispering secrets, which are not for you to hear, and not mine to tell. I’m also getting quite used to my boss-lady. She gave the boss a nice thingamagig to add to his set of keys! She’s a very sweet girl and i hope that they’ll be happily together for a long, long time.

However, i don’t like it when the boss ferries his friends around, filling me to capacity. They’re so heavy! I wonder how i managed to creep up slopes with them weighing me down. I take forever to reach 5th-gear speeds whenever they’re all aboard. But the boss is a nice person, always offering to ferry people about. He used to fetch his neighbour downtown for his scholarship programs, and to fetch some of his fellow scholars for supper meetings.

Speaking of scholarships…the boss is going away to Germany soon. And i’ll soon be sold for scrap, and forgotten by the world. Maybe i’ll be shipped to some remote corner of the world, to eke out another existence, or to maybe run another few hundred thousand kilometers.

Hey, i could be your next refridgerator!

twin cam, turbocharge, fuel injection, drive shaft
jet black, sports wheels, side skirts, nitrous
a bright red sticker, saying ‘go faster!’ on my windscreen

manual gears, 6 of them
closely stacked, one to the other
the century dash takes just 4.3 seconds
it made me from a zero into a hero

and so i drove my car, with no speed limit
i drove it fast, foot down on the gas,
and the wheels turned round and round…

The car enthusiast’s dream, lost in a cloud of nitrous fumes and a cacophony of roaring PS engines.

and soon i’ll be going, embarking on a trip
an adventure, an experience, starting a new life
a journey into a new world, but i shall swallow my fears;
i’m going to dive now, for it looks deep enough from here

will i crash? Will i fall hard and burn?
will i crack, will my heart shatter into a million pieces?
then i’ll close my eyes, and try to sleep
for i know there you’ll be waiting, to still all my fears

maybe i’ll fly high, and soar above the world
maybe i’ll pick a star from the skies above
maybe one day what you dreamt of me will be reality
and it’s all because of you – you thought of me

it’s going to be a long, long journey, for a long, long time
and i ask myself, if we’ll ever see each other again
in the darkest of nights, your face is all that will shine
and i know, deep down, that one day we’ll meet again.

i’ll never forget when you smiled that night, for
you killed me with your smile
it was so beautiful, but so wild
so beautiful, but so wild.

Weil du bei mir bist. Ich liebe dich.

-i can’t tell you how words flow. i just know they do.

and to where do you go now, my Love -
back to the lands beyond the waking world,
a realm of dreams and wonders, the world
to which you truly belong?

and do you truly wish to leave me here,
trapped and lost, in the Limbo of reality?
Caged in this plane of existence,
a world of which i’ve come to tire…

perhaps i, too, shall sleep soon
let me sleep, so i can be with you, and
together we’ll wander the secret passageways of the Dreamtime
and whisper secrets, words forgotten in the morning.

‘Will you still love me when the morning comes?’

-Für immer und ewig, mein Schatz. Für immer und ewig.

(-a translation will be made available on demand. guojun.)

Ich kann es kaum glauben. Wer hätte gedacht, dass ich mich so schnell in sie verlieben würde?! Mich bangt es immer, wenn ich sie mir zukommen sehe. Ich frage mich, ob sie sich mal umdrehen würde, um einen Blick auf mich zu werfen, damit sie auch mich sieht. Kurz vor 3 Monaten hatten wir uns noch nie gesehen, aber jetzt ist doch alles anders als bisher.

Es war ein Freund von uns, der uns vorgestellt hat. Als ich sie zum ersten Mal sah, dachte ich sofort, ‘ach, das ist doch ‘ne Mädchen, für die vielleicht 10, sogar 100erte von Herzen schlagen…’ weil sie doch so aussah, als ob sie gerade aus einem Traum gekommen wäre. Sie war sehr hübsch, und bewegte sich mit einer Anmut, die ich nicht zu haben vermag. Ihr Lachen war zart und süß, und trotz ihrer Schönheit gab es hinter dem Anschein noch Intelligenz und einen Art von Stolz, der sie wie eine Hülle umgibt. Es gab etwas Zauberhaftes zwischen uns, das alles für eine kurze Weile perfekt machte.

Mit ihr zu sprechen war einfach, und die Worter flossen, als ob wir uns schon seit vielen Jahren gekannt hätten. Wir erzählten einander Dingen, die wir einem Bekannter normaleweise niemals sagen würden. Manches haben sie traurig gemacht, während es auch Dingen gegeben hat, die mich betrübt haben. Wir redeten über unsere eigene Vergangenheiten, was uns auf den Weg halfen, und auch was uns widerfuhren. Der Magie schien nie ein Ende zu haben. Vieles, was einer von uns sagte, konnte auch der andere nachvollziehen, damit wir uns fast nichts zu erklären hatten.

Trotzdem kam die Realität eines Tages plötzlich dazwischen, als mir plötzlich klar wurde, dass ich gleich im Ausland zum Studium gehe.

Gleichzeitig wurde es zwischen uns immer besser. Ich erinnere mich an unserem ersten Umarmen, an unserem ersten Kuss, den sie mir auf die Wange gab, an die Geheimnisse, die sie zu mir in der Nacht flüsterte. Ich erinnere mich daran, wie sie nach meiner Hand graf. Es gab aber auch Momente, wann die Angst uns überfällt, wann die Unsicherheit uns zu überwinden drohte. Dann pressten wir uns näher zusammen, als ob es die letzte Nacht sein könnte.

Eines Tages sagte sie mir: ‘ich kann auf dich warten.’

Sie liebt mich schon so, und ich sie auch, aber wie werden wir die Entfernung besiegen? Was wir tun können, ist, das Zuversicht nicht verlorengehen zu lassen. Wir müssen darüber hinaus auch stark und geduldig sein, mein Schatz…

Ich werde auch auf dich warten. Wir können gemeinsem diesen Weg gehen, bis uns die Beine bricht, bis an die Sterne im Himmel.

English-German translation available on die neue Welle.
eine Übersetzung in der deutschen Sprache (bzw. den Originaltext) finden Sie bei die neue Welle.

man sagt, dass es während jedes Lebens eine Zeit gibt,
wenn man von der Liebe Gottes getroffen ist;
und manchmal fängt es an, wieder im eigenen Leben zu donnern
es kommt zu einem Sturm, und man singt darüber…

es gibt bestimmt mehr als das; die Liebe ist mehr als einen Kuss
schaffen wir es bis dahin? Werden wir uns total verstehen?
und bist du diejenige, die den Donner zu meinem Leben bringst?
das Feuer, damit meine Augen nicht erlöschen?
wäre es so, dann gäbe es unendliche Tagen von Freude,
dann kämen alle Sterne auch zum Greifen nah…

so ein Donner und ein Blitz hab ich nie gesehen…
so ein Wunder wie du hab ich auch noch nie wahrgenommen…

i could talk about you for days on end
without the slightest mention of your sacred name
a name which could be deliverance for me,
when i am overwhelmed by tears of pain

i find the way you carry yourself desirable,
and every hour with you could be a lifetime, for
nothing is comparable with what you give us
what you show us, the way you live, and how you love…

i’ve never seen, there’s never been anything with the beauty of you…
ich kenne nichts, ich kenne nichts, das so schön ist wie du…

i savour the beautiful days spent in your company, for they are
as beautiful as the road to the morning-star
cherishing and celebrating each day like a festival
days when i constantly learn more about you and yourself

i find it beautiful and magical to have known you
it probably is the best of what i have so far
and excuse me, but please let me say this again, that:
your name is the best thing i’ve learned to say.

Monday. The beginning of the week. The Pope, dressed in his Monday regalia, stands before an empty square, a square where he, just as many Popes before him, have given blessings and prayed for world peace. He stretches and breathes in the fresh, crisp morning air, basking in the gentle golden light of the Sun. And he knows that he is the luckiest, and unluckiest man in the World, for with great power comes even greater responsibility. He stands there for half an hour. And then he retires to his office to begin the week’s administration.

This takes time, for even a massive religious organisation has bureaucratic pathways which require careful navigation. The Pope neither eats nor drinks on this day, for Monday is a new beginning, a rebirth. And so it should be.

On Tuesday, the Pope calls for a conference of all his Archbishops, to keep himself updated on the happenings of the world outside. They argue and argue over trivialities, and the Pope entertains himself by observing their meaningless bickering. He bids them to sit and plies them with the finest of wines to loosen their tongues, and then he sits. And watches. The discussion, or perhaps it should be called the argument, lasts for sixteen hours. And the Pope is never bored, for he learns much from pure observation.

When the boredom gets the better of him, he twiddles his thumbs patiently.

On Wednesday, the Pope reviews the Papal Guard. They are warriors and crusaders, paladins and magi, clerics and charlatans, hailing from all parts of this world to rally under his banner. He watches as they assemble under the orders of the Captain of the Guard, decked out in flowing robes of purple and gold. There are swords and maces, staves and morningstars, but also spell-books and charms. Each Wednesday, they reaffirm their vow of allegiance to his service, and also to His service. Their duty is to protect the Pope in dire straits, and to ensure that the banner of the White City flies proud forever.

The Pope, however, doesn’t believe in magick, even if he has seen it in action.

On Thursday, the Pope sleeps, for he is human, and he, too, needs rest. In his dreams, sometimes he receives a message. Sometimes they are dreamless. Sometimes he awakes screaming.

On Friday, the Pope speaks to children who have pilgered from all corners of the continent just to see him. He listens to their dreams and requests, and he reads them stories. There is a particular story which he particularly likes, about a grey old woman who bought a potted plant in a market stall, which actually turned out to be the Tree of Life. The children are enthralled. The Pope gives these children new shoes, and mends their clothes, and bids them good luck on their journey home.

There was, on a particularly cold, rainy Friday, a child who stepped before the Pope. She was blind in both eyes, and her clothes were torn and bedraggled. And she reached for his face, feeling the contours of his eyes, nose and mouth. Finally she spoke.

‘You must be a very wise man, Papa.’

The Pope knew it wasn’t true.

On Saturday, the Pope called for war. Wars were a necessary evil, and although the Pope knew of the plundering, rape, death and pillage in his name, he was content to let it happen, as long as he never heard of it directly, for while it was his duty to spread the word of his Lord, there were some places where the best pen for the word was the sword. And the rest was collateral damage, although such a term would only be used in another world, in another reality.

The Pope’s military commanders fuss over every little detail of each crusade, over rolls of parchment in the War Room, located deep within the bowels of the Papal palace, while outside, the knights and crusaders polish their armour and sharpen the tools of their trades. Armourers and clerics flit between these warriors like shadows, selling warhammers and shields, salves and cures. War always creates a boom in trade, and the hustle and bustle in the city lends it a life which can be described in neither words nor pictures. The White City, holiest of the Holy, breathes and lives on this one night.

And on Sunday, the Pope prays. He prays for forgiveness, for himself and for his warriors, whom he knows will die with a prayer and the Lord’s name on their blood-flecked lips. He prays for a beautiful morning on Monday, and he prays for the children. And he prays, from sunrise til sundown.

And Monday beckons.

-hello you, i hope that someday, someone will sing this when he sees us. Yes it’s for a he. Don’t accuse me of sexual bias. (And please don’t start looking around for him…he doesn’t exist yet.)

everytime she passes, there is a starburst of light
and before the entrance to heaven, she stands guard
her regality is only worthy of kings and knights
of which i possess none – she sees right through me.

and when she dances, nothing else is important -
with her arms and her hair flying in the wind
she brightens up the day, breathing life and colour,
with her grace and purity, she works wonders

wonders big and small, not of this world
as if she would spread her wings and soar above,
but she sees right through me…

the nearer i approach, the clumsier i become -
my body fails, my voice is silenced, and my smile starts to fade
for i know that while there’re walls which fall despite a lion’s defence
the one between us will always stand for all eternity, and forevermore

he has style, and is delicate, he earns the love you shower like a gift
for his love is like that of the world to a newborn child
he is exactly that which i can never be
but you don’t know, nor do you care -
for i’m just the invisible man

waiting in the shadows, watching as you bask
in the light and colour, more beautiful than dawn or dusk
you turn my flesh and blood into glass
do you see me? – he’s so lucky
that he’s yours and i’ll never be.