Our Story

Where words become echoes of the soul.

Hey, stranger. I’m glad you’re here.

In this vast digital universe — trillions of ones and zeros, endless noise, arguments, wars, and whispers dissolving into nothing — you somehow found your way here, to these still-warm words of mine. I sincerely hope you feel happy, free, and at peace.

I am Echords — a young poet from China, a Virgo, an INFP. I once joked that the only hobby I ever stuck with was writing poetry. But the truth is, poetry was never just a hobby. It was the force that kept me alive.

My poems are filled with color, seasons, souls, and rain that glistens with an indigo sheen. During my graduate studies in Japanese literature, I researched the work of Osamu Dazai — and through him, I absorbed the aesthetics of ruin, emptiness, and mono no aware. Perhaps that deepened something I already believed: that suffering gives birth to art.

And then there was my father.

He was diagnosed with Multiple System Atrophy. He fought bravely for over ten years. On October 11, 2024, he left me forever. That was the moment Echords was born — though I didn’t know it yet.

After he passed, my life seemed to stop. The day he died, I wrote a poem — and then nothing. No more words came. My emotions became numb, broken, fragile, angry. I stopped thinking. I stopped writing. I stopped believing in beauty and love.

Until one night, I dreamed of him. The three of us — my father, my mother, and I — laughing together, sitting around a table, sharing a meal. Behind us, countless wet springs stretched into the distance. I slowly realized: his death had already passed through me. Body and soul, he was gone. I felt a helpless kind of release.

After many restless nights, I gathered the courage to open my poetry notes — untouched for so long — and read through every verse I had ever written about my father. A quiet idea took root: I wanted the world to see his story, to read my poems, and if possible, to bring even a fleeting moment of happiness to a stranger.

And so, Echords was born. This brand, forged by my own hands, carries my words, my longing, and my will. I hope that through poetry full of life’s force, I can bring you a unique and unforgettable experience of beauty.

To you. To life. And to my beloved father.

I’m doing well now. How about you?

THE POEM THAT STARTED IT ALL

《那如水汽般悲凉的日子》

Days as Bleak as Vapor

夜晚结束，他们的车队载着父亲的遗骨驶向
洞穴，或是海洋

朦胧中，厚底皮鞋与高跟鞋的声响摩擦碰撞
混着新生儿的啼哭声
久久充斥于我的梦境

记忆中的楼栋，灰白而摇摇欲坠
父亲的十个兄弟神色各异，他们带着他们的女人们
交头接耳或者哭泣着跪拜
与我毫无关系好似异星生物
开始挨个签字画押
同父亲的配偶交接死亡

「让这一切开始吧」
我自语道
让这片丛林开始布满地穴和动物褪去的毛发
家中冷涩的茶几开始盛放恰逢节日的虚无
水已挥发，茶已见底
无人再去眯缝着眼睛，不安地咂嘴
也无人再去提出这个问题
「作何思考呢？」

夜晚结束，他们的车队载着父亲的遗骨驶向
地铁，或是我从未曾去过的地方
他的灵刚一触到火苗
就乖巧地烧起来
那些曾经对我说过的话语
冷凝后，只吊垂在空中
幽幽然，无力地摇荡

「让这一切开始吧」
我自语道
尽管苦痛
却不能令自己的心脏停止
我开始不受控制地在这个深秋的早晨晨勃起来
而父亲的大脑和心越缩越小
越缩越小
直到在他的身体里形成了两处明灭微烁的黑洞

往日的回忆便如同颗颗弹珠一般
装进了覆着水汽的玻璃瓶
向那儿倏忽望去
满是模糊、不安、清脆又易碎的幸福
——Echords

——— ENGLISH TRANSLATION ———

Night ends. Their convoy carries my father’s remains
toward caverns, or the sea.
In a haze, the scrape and collision of thick-soled shoes
and high heels
mix with the cry of a newborn,
lingering, flooding the dream.

The building in memory—ashen, on the verge of collapse.
Ten brothers of my father, each with a different face,
bring along their women,
whispering, or kneeling in tears—
creatures from another planet, unrelated to me.
One by one, signatures are made, seals pressed,
the dead handed over
to his spouse.

“Let it begin,”
a murmur to myself.

Let this jungle fill with burrows
and the shed fur of animals.
The cold, astringent table at home
begins to hold the void of a festival.
Water evaporated. Tea drained.
No one squints anymore, uneasy, smacking dry lips.
No one asks again:
“What is there to think?”

Night ends. Their convoy carries my father’s remains
toward the subway, or somewhere never reached.
The moment his spirit touches flame,
it burns obediently.
Words once spoken
condense,
hang suspended in the air,
dimly, swaying without strength.

“Let it begin,”
a murmur to myself.

Though pain persists,
the heart is not permitted to stop.
In this deep autumn morning, the body rises
beyond control.
Meanwhile, the brain and heart in his body
shrink and shrink,
until two faintly flickering black holes
form within him.

Memories of former days become marbles,
packed into a glass jar filmed with vapor.
A glance toward it—
blur, unease,
a brittle, ringing happiness, ready to break.

—Echords

WHAT WE BELIEVE

Poetry Is Not Decoration

Every design in our collection starts with a real poem, written from real experience. The artwork is born from the words — not the other way around. When you see an Echords piece, you’re seeing a feeling made visible.

Made When You Choose It

Every Echords piece is made to order. We produce one — yours — when you decide it’s meant for you. This isn’t fast fashion. It’s intentional. It’s personal. And it means nothing is wasted.

Four Seasons, One Soul

Our collections follow the rhythm of the year — Fictional Spring, Frantic Summer, Blind Autumn, Wordless Winter. Each season carries its own emotional landscape, its own poems. Together, they form a complete cycle: the full range of what it means to feel, to lose, to return, and to begin again.

P.S.

This is a photo of my father and me, taken back when he could still walk. My mother had bought us matching outfits that day. He was so excited, he insisted we take a father‑son picture. Looking at it now, I understand why. Now, this memory lives on — in words, in fabric, in every quiet corner of Echords.