The soul should always stand ajar, ready to welcome the ecstatic experiences. –Emily Dickinson
For some reason,
you become my child—
like a heaven tree
conceives her seeds.
Stars and stones,
satisfaction and soreness,
you become the one
shining in my floral cup.
I want to tell you—
besides roots,
wings you grow.
And for this reason,
I let you go.
一群人还在谈着海子，
闪烁的烟头隐现驶近的列车。
窗外已是深秋，一个夏天过去，
知了停住了喧嚣。
你躲进书房，
手指滑过一排书目。
月光映照“安娜卡列琳娜”，
一行铁轨铺在你的面前。
月收拢脸，
一把弯刀，
沉甸甸的玉米地里
听得到收割声，
流水声。
A million arrows are aimed at the sky,
yet the sun still not shot down.
Glancing back,
their golden faces are soaked with tears.
Mourning grasses
grow wild upon my eyes,
burn flames in the wind.
Those duckweeds and swimming fish,
those floating clouds and breezes
are far behind.
In turning, I lose my way
and feel the lotus core in pieces.
With arrows sifting through my hand,
I see sunset in crimson.