Time Song
Walking along the banks of the river, my heart’s scattered
across the water.
Wandering upstream, the endless mountains and resplendent sunset
are all I see.
Spring, that glimpse of Heaven, drowns over and over in a sea of grass.
Wandering downstream, the random rise and fall
is not the teeming underbrush…
Wood ears grow, ring the base of dying trees. Tears hide in amber.
The more I remember, the sadder I feel… a sickly, dispirited patient.
Beneath the wisteria, I copy the Sutras. Lying on the lawn,
I pick at the flowers, stir-up the dust.
If time could ratta-tap, stagger and sway,
I’d muddle along with it, undulating, surging, restless.
If time could be a coil, a skein of silk thread reeled from a cocoon,
I’d be that too, all gleaming and shiny.
I’ve never counted on those promises, tears, or tender affections.
Still able to follow the reed’s pollen, I’ll make my way home again.
时光曲
我走在岸边，我的心散落在江水里
我去上游，只看到连绵的山体
和繁华的落日
春天泄露的天书，一次次被草海淹没
我去下游，跌宕起伏的
不是蓬勃的灌木
枯树上长木耳，琥珀里藏着泪
我且忆且悲，是个颓废的病人
在藤萝树下抄写经书，在草地上拈花惹尘
时光若是踢踢踏踏，摇摇晃晃
我就与它一起，倾斜、起伏、汹涌、动荡
时光若是一团、一卷，像茧子里抽出丝
我就与它一起，发光或照亮
我从来不指望，那些盟誓、泪水、轻怜蜜爱
还能沿着芦苇的芽孢，重新走回来
My Loneliness
As a shadow, I lack companions.
As a tree, I lack growth rings.
As a bland, boring wanderer
I say things that are polite, but in my heart aren’t true.
Singing Yue Opera in a pub…
writing love letters on rice paper…
On the road, washed up, broke
I joined a funeral for a gust of wind.
There’s no gossip or mystery around me.
Leaving home,
there were no messengers to bring letters from family.
I spin a cocoon, but can’t stay coiled.
Though I love the plants that blanket the steppe
I live by the sea.
Day in day out, the sea slaps against the hull.
It offers me a sea gull’s love,
but doesn’t let me release this succulent youth.
I want to die with dignity,
but I’m compelled to live in shame.
I sort apples by gender.
I mistake crows for wilted vines.
I walk like a blind person with an umbrella,
hold muted sorrow in my heart as I make my way home.
I stand in the middle of the world
and let autumn’s tears flow.
我是一个孤独的人
作为影子，我没有同伴
作为树木，我没有年轮
作为一个乏味无趣的旅行者
我说一些口是心非的客套话
在小酒馆里唱越剧
在宣纸上写情书
在一贫如洗的路上
去参加一阵风的葬礼
我的身边，没有绯闻和隐私
离开故乡的路上
没有信使送来家书
我作茧却不能自缚
爱着草原的植被
却生活在海边
海水日日敲打着船舷
它给我带来一只鸥鸟的爱情
却不让我献出水汁丰沛的青春
我想高贵地死去
它却让我屈辱地活
我把苹果分成公母
把老鸦当成枯藤
我是打着雨伞走路的盲人
我是怀揣着忧伤回家的哑巴
我站在大地的中央
流着秋天的泪水
Alone, I Hang the Lanterns and Colorful Decorations
Ahn, halfway through a letter to you
night falls. I light the lamp,
but the name I shout out is that of the rush*.
In this moment, my ink strokes span thousands of miles.
The lines and curves ripple like water in the breeze,
and yet a heart becomes incomparably tender.
Ahn, do you still remember
Lacey Road in August?
Do you still remember those
trees, how they fruited though without a single bloom?
Oh, that whole summer!
I played in the shadows, listened to the wind dancing on the water.
But in all, I never became angelic, other-worldly.
Missing someone is like
the unchecked sprawl of wild grass.
Alone, I watch the clouds on the horizon
simmer slowly at dusk.
Alone, I watch fireworks soar and glitter
then fade to silence.
Alone, I hang the lanterns and colorful decorations.
I go to the bookstore. I wander the malls.
Alone, I go for a stroll. Alone I gaze at the sea.
I entertain the idea, down some footpath we’ll meet.
But, this isn’t your city.
So, how could it be you, here?
*botanical name, Juncaceae, whose dried pith has been used to make primitive candles
一个人张灯结彩
安，给你的信写了一半
天就黑了，我点亮了灯盏
喊出的，却是灯芯草的名字
此刻，笔墨纵横千里
横竖撇捺，都风生水起
一颗心却变得柔软无比
安，你是不是还记得
这八月里的莱西路
你，是不是还记得那些
不开花却结果的树
整整一个夏天啊
我起舞弄影，临水听风
却始终都没有成为天使
对一个人的想念却像
野草一样蔓生
我一个人，看天边的云彩
在黄昏里，慢慢地燃烧
我一个人，看烟火腾空灿烂
最后归于沉寂
我一个人张灯结彩
我去书店，我去商场
我一个人去散步，一个人去看海
梦想着在一条小径上与你相遇
可是这里不是你的城市
又怎么会有你
