A collection of poems from ʫ���(http://www.poetrysky.com). Translated by Yihang Translation Studio.
˭����ҹ�����ڰ� ���������ʹ��èͷӥ�������ߣ� ���ز���Ա��ʧ�ߵ�ʫ�ˣ�ʧȥ��ʥ�� ɭ�ָ�ɽ��Ԩ ��ͻȻ������� ��ϰ�����ڱ����µ�˯�� ������ƽԭ�ĸ��� �����˰̣��ڰ��еĺ�������е���ȫ Night Observations Who in deep night measures the area of darkness An angel? An Owl? A schizophrenic patient? Surveyor? Insomniac? Poet? Departed sage Forest, high mountain, abyss A goose rises skyward in sudden flight People get used to sleeping under storms Lightning over the torso of a plain Leaves scars, a river of darkness your anchor? your security?
�������յ�ȫ����������� �����������ڵ�����վ��һ������ ��ػٻ��Լ�����֮���ֻٻ��Լ������� ���ϵĸ�Ů����ѩ���ﰲ�� ��������ʱ��һ������ ������Ů�������Ů�� ��Զ��ʹ��Ʈҡ ��ҹ�Ұ��ô�ص�ȫ������ �����˱�����Ů������ ��������������˼�����յ�ҽԺ �ҹ۲����ʱ����Ʈѩ �ľ���ʯͷһ����Ĭ ����������һ����ʥ����Ƭ �������������������ʯ�Ϸɱ� һȺ������Ů������ӿ������ ��һȺ�Ǻ����ĵ�ʿ��ɮ�� �ҳ�ʵ�ؿ������ŵ����� �ȴ�Ʈѩ���������ļ���ǰ������ ����һ����dz����� û�����������游��������ǰ���� ����һ�����ɵ����� ������������Ĵ��� ����Ϸ�����һ���������� ��������������ϴ�� ���������� �����ҹ¶� Requiem for Me and God With my own hands I burned all letters from migratory birds And I watched autumn standing for a century on the tip of a knife After the good earth disfigured its face, then it ruined its own heart Women of our time are flurrying to make their homes in snowflakes Their fall to earth is unexpected The woman hiding in the heart of a woman Is forever suffering hurt and also floating This night my secret survey of the good earth, the whole process Hears the secret between a young woman and a panther Sees people born in springtime crowding the hospital of the sky I observe the floating snow of this era My heart as silent as a stone I bend my waist to pick up a fragment of holy tile After rubbing it with my sleeve, I see human traces streak across boulders A group of black-robed nuns stream like music toward other towns Another group of monks and hermits, almost never seen I wait and watch these evanescent objects Until snowfall comes looking for me, like a skyful of fluttering disease This is a superficial age Abandoned infants do not crawl along the rails of their grandfathers This age is ravenous to swallow everything Machines damage the brain cells of human beings What has happened on the good earth is a wound in people's hearts Within music, I use tears to wash my face This is not a matter of my sins It is my solitude