The World at Dusk

Memory suffuses the dusk, a girl weeping far from home
in the calm air in the back garden, time
is like a far-flowing afternoon river, smashed scales sparkle
youth cries out from the water, the autumn is sickly and depressed

Grandmother stands and cries with a bird arriving from the south
from the empty garden to the flowerpots sagging in the wind
the rose of fate, withered trees grow new bark
among those secluded here is Grandfather, drunk amid the hemp

He breathes low, piercing the rose-blossom autumn
the wind and trees moan, five girls, yearning for love,
with their faces powdered white,
feel their mortal desire gradually run dry

And I, at dusk decades later, write unconvincing lines
that nearly topple the courtyard’s fate, in the light of evening
the twilit air fills adolescent girls with dreams
and the roses softly tell of faraway love

Wind beats day and night at the gray window lattice, dusk envelops
the declining courtyard, a beam illuminates a lonely, gloomy
desolation more lasting than a dream. The countryside is quiet
a pair of butterflies flit, crickets call low from the corner

No one will remember this bleak Rose Courtyard
its tranquil beauty hurts me, in this mortal afternoon
the past flows on like a river, and the five girls
who never met love are wretched in the wind

红尘的黄昏

回忆布满黄昏，掩面而泣的远游女子
后花园宁静的气息，时光像一条
下午的河流远逝，碎裂的鳞片闪光
青春在水中鸣叫，秋天多病而忧郁

站着的祖母跟随南方来的鸟哭泣
从空空的花园到萎缩风中的花盆
宿命的玫瑰，枯死的树长出新皮
隐居的人群，大麻中沉醉的祖父

他低低地呼吸，穿过玫瑰盛开的秋天
呻吟的风呻吟的树，五个向往爱情的
女子，她们白茫茫落尽铅华的脸，
她们一点一点流干红尘的渴望

我，数十年后的黄昏，用散淡的句子
写下即将倒塌庄园的宿命，夕光中
薄暮的气息让怀春女子充满幻想
玫瑰轻轻诉说远逝的爱情

风声日夜拍打灰窗棂，黄昏笼罩
凋零的庄园，一片光照亮比梦还长的
孤独、阴沉的冷清。田园平静
一双蝴蝶飞舞，墙角蟋蟀低鸣

没有谁会回忆这萧条的玫瑰庄园
它静寂的美让我心痛，红尘的下午
往事像河流样逝去，五个从未
和爱情见面的女子，她们风中哀怨

Needlework

Soft hands stroke the embroidered pillow of grass-hued smoke
the needlework exudes the must of time, Grandmother
sews fate and love into the quilt of fiction
whose warmth holds no memory of excitement or passion

The strange dreams of a girl, more than sixty years later
harken back to olden times, rouge, fine jade, wood carvings
the back wing in the courtyard’s shadow and the grandmothers
smell of the past, like her own ensnarled heart

It holds a Chinese woman’s entire lifetime
she once looked on love with hope
the silken past, cloth shoes spotted with tears
full of metaphors and desolation that must not be divulged

Faced with time and memories more tangled than her needlework
she uses colored silk to weave a pattern of love and fate
the moon glitters, illuminating the silks and satins of the flowers
a nightbird startles into flight, its call mild and low

The lamp illuminates the flower petals, the evening breezes dry the dew
memories set fire to the past, a wounded elegant love
rain soaks into the heart, it follows the needle’s footsteps
to weave the mournful Sichuan brocade of Rose Courtyard

Fallen petals coat the path, the back wing’s cold air presses in
autumnal roses blossom on Grandmother’s face, her needlework
swarms with confusion, she uses a plaintive needle
and despairing thread to embroider a Rose Courtyard autumn

针线

纤手抚摸草色烟光的绣花枕头
针线散发时光的霉味，祖母
把命运与爱情缝进虚构的被面
温暖从未有兴奋、激情的回忆

少女奇异的幻想，六十多年后
想起昔日，胭脂、美玉、雕花
庄园阴暗的后厢房，与祖母们
有旧时气味，似她纠缠的内心

它收藏中国女人一生的时光
她曾有眺望爱情的眼神
丝帛般往事，布鞋间的泪斑
充满无法倾诉的隐喻与苍凉

面对比针线凌乱的时光与记忆
她用七色彩丝织下爱情与命运
月光闪耀，照亮绸缎般花丛
夜鸟惊飞，声音柔和而低沉

灯光照亮花叶，晚风吹干露水
回忆点燃往事，忧伤清丽的爱
雨水浸濡内心，它沿针线脚跟
织出玫瑰花园感伤的蜀锦

落花遍布小径，后厢房凉气逼人
秋玫瑰开放祖母的脸庞，针线里
云集她的迷惘，她用哀叹的针
绝望的线绣出玫瑰花园的秋景

Foreign Land

Horses or lanterns on paper, blood or music in the body
silk petals wither, time gallops toward Yunnan
your paltry body rushes across the country, with your
yearning, passion, duty becoming testimony to an epoch

For years, I’ve felt the bone-chill of war
your bodies are like lamps warming our country
so many years later, I read your letters by the courtyard’s light
and a heart full of passion leaps from the paper

“Weak and thin, with a pair of bright eyes,” Grandmother says of you
“In the midst of despair is the beat of flames,” you wrote
I read of brutal war more than seventy years ago in the history books
eight years of massacres, the sun and moon and stars…other nouns as well

“Don’t worry about me,” your letter begins
I imagine subtropical jungles, beasts, and sickness
loneliness and hunger, life and death, roses and guns
homesickness, light like black juice and unruffled officers

These unfamiliar words choke my throat like smoke
subtropical plants and their sharp odors
I cannot touch you, my relative, buried in a foreign land
a medal from the war of resistance becomes proof of a tragic era

Recently, I’ve seen news about your comrades in battle
and dreamed of that jungle, where my relative is buried
I live in lethargy, writing poetry, watching my loved ones decline
thinking in the exhausted dusk, “Don’t worry about me.”

异乡

纸上的马或灯笼 ，身体里的热血或音乐
绸质花瓣枯萎，时光弯向云南腾冲
你渺小的身体奔突着祖国，有你的
向往、热爱、责任，构成时代的见证

这么多年，我依旧感受战争彻骨寒凉
你们的身体似一盏盏灯笼温暖祖国大地
多少年后，我在庄园灯下读你的信件
一颗饱含激情的心灵，在纸上跳动

“孱弱 瘦小 一双明亮眼睛”祖母说起你
“沮丧中有火焰跳动”这是你的句子
我从史书阅读七十多年前残暴的战争
八年，屠杀、 三光……还有另外名词

“别为我担心”你信中第一句话
我想象亚热带的丛林 ，野兽与疾病
孤寂与饥饿、生与死、枪与玫瑰
思乡病 ，黑汁般的光与戴安澜将军

这些陌生的词，浓烟样呛着我喉咙
亚热带草本植物，它们浓烈的气味
我无法触摸到你，我的亲人，长眠异乡
抵抗侵略的勋章，成为悲剧时代罪证

这些年，我从新闻看关于战争中的你们
梦见那片丛林，那里埋葬了我的亲人
我在慵懒中活着，写诗，目睹亲人凋零
在疲倦的黄昏想起 “别为我担心”