(Enlish version) a Rehearsal to Missing Copenhagen

The same kind of mixed feeling struck me once again,
Like it did.

I was wandering around in the middle of this city,
Taking notice of nothing,
at the same time attending to everything –
perhaps I am just sensing,
feeling this moment,
when my existence just happen
to blend with its –
could be merely a coincidence.
I looked up into the sky,
the vast, cloudless sky in Copenhagen at 21:30,
(see, instead of saying half past nine)
The colour of dark grey so dominant, an occasional variation here,
Like
Imagining how the same sky would change into a scene
suffocated by skyscrapers
and how small it would seem.
Then Panda’s words popped out, as I remember -
the privilege of living in the upper region of our globe,
Where the sky is so low.
Perhaps I have gotten used to it,
For I can no longer visualize how far up the sky can be,
With the slants of all the tall buildings lining up beside me,
Rendering it completely out of reach.

I miss Copenhagen, thought I,
despite the fact that I realize immediately
the word implies a past memory.
How strangely I have become connected to all that’s happening here,
How I have cycled through the city with a thousand others,
Some faces of which looks so familiar;
How I have been used to freezing winters and bright summers
Always accompanied by the sight of the canal -
The still mirror, on which cast a shadow of light;
The vivid waves, reflecting a sparkling sight
In midst of the chilly morning,
Or when night fell
Upon the city,
Dusk enchants like charming lady.
(Or a cute guy, to be precise.)
How I have wandered through the streets in silence,
Observing faces so foreign
But a comfortable compatibility,
Listening to the disgusting, incomprehensible sounds Danish,
Still an awkward intimacy,
Only to be attracted by an occasional touch of English.

As I reluctantly leave the city’s core
(on bike of course –
probably an escape from the tonnes of work laid before me),
I just wanna bike so slow,
Letting myself flow while the same wind blows,
So that I can move along
Without a single move
Like in the water, birds gliding through
with a blissful whistle.
My action in vain to stop the sound, tickling,
In my mind where the clock started counting,
Counting down every second
of my last days in Copenhagen

There are, though, not many people to miss -
I guess I can do it (as for a bike) with a single hand;
My mind obsessed with thoughts of unaccomplished visits,
Wondering if I would ever return again.

P.S. I should painfully admit the fact that my words fail me… SHIT.