The Untranslatable Mist

This piece began as a short poem I wrote in Chinese years ago about the nature of mist (雾):

雾

我看见的雾

总在我永远也达不到的前方

其实

我正在雾里¹

Last year, when I tried to translate it into English, the words felt like they were losing their magic. In Chinese, the character 雾 (wù) has the radical “雨” (rain) at the top, above the phonetic element “务”, creating a visual density and a specific poetic weight that English words like “mist” or “fog” just can’t replicate. The character itself looks like the atmosphere it describes.

While I was stuck on the translation, I suddenly “saw” these images in my head. I realized that if I couldn’t translate the words, I could translate the poem’s feeling and the logic into pictures.

In the end, I was much happier with these drawings than I was with my English drafts of the poem. Sometimes, when words fail, pictures are another way to speak.

1. The direct (literal) translation of the poem:

Mist

The mist I see

Is always ahead, where I can never reach.

Actually,

I am already in the mist.

I’m curious—have you ever found that a certain word or feeling in your own language just doesn't have a home in another? Is there a feeling you've had to express through art or music because words weren't enough? Have you ever chased something, only to realize you were already standing in the middle of it? I’d love to hear about it if you feel like sharing.