LI JINFA


The Abandoned Woman

Long hair hangs before my eyes,
Blocking the shaming stares,

The rapid flow of fresh blood, the slumber of dry bones.

Dark night and insects come with the same footsteps

Over the low wall

And yelp into my chaste ears

Like the howling wind

That makes the nomads shiver.

With a blade of grass, I traverse the empty vale with God;
My sorrow finds the register in a flitting bee’s brain

Or hangs down the cliff with a mountain spring

And then disappears with red leaves.

The grief of a forsaken woman weighs on her movements;

The flame of the setting sun cannot turn her distress
Into smoke rising from the embers
Or dye the wings of a vagrant crow
And perch with it on a rock in a tumbling sea
To listen quietly to a mariner’s song.

The decrepit skirt groans
And wanders by the grave.
No more scalding tears
To adorn the grasses
Of the world.


Lament

If fallen leaves are splashed blood

on our feet, life is a smile

on the lips of our death.

Under the half dead moon you drink

and sing with a cracked throat,

your voice howling in the north wind—

hush!

—and comfort the one you love.

Open the doors and windows,

be shameful,

and let the dust cover your loving eyes.

Are you shy

or angry with life?


Tenderness

With my rude fingertips

I feel the warmth of your flesh;

The small fawn lost his way in the woods;

Only the sighs of dead leaves remain.

Your low feeble voice

Screams in my barren heart,

And I, the conqueror of all,

Have broken my spear and shield.

Your “tender glance”

Is like a butcher's warning of slaughter;

Your lips? No need to mention them!

I would rather trust your arms.

I believe in the crazy fairy tales,

But not in a woman’s love.

I am not used to making comparisons,

But you do resemble the shepherdess in fiction.

I exhaust all musical tunes,

But fail to please your ears;

I use every color,

But none can capture your beauty.

Sitting in Quietude

Winter has a message of its own.

When the cold is like a flower.

Flowers have their fragrance,

winter has its handful of memories.

The shadow of a withered branch,

like lean blue smoke,

paints a stroke across the afternoon window.

In the cold, the sunlight grows pale and slanted.

It is just like this.

I sip the tea quietly

As if waiting for a guest to speak.


Misfortune

The flowers of our souls are broken,

So we cry bitterly in a dark room.

The sun behind the mountain range cannot dry

Our tears; it dissipates just the dawn haze.

How ashamed I am. A nightingale is singing.

Bring me your lyre, and I’ll tell my sorrows

And ask it to spread the tale as it roams.

We interact with a stupid language.

Only your lyre can relate –

And only spring can understand – the fall of a soul.

Except for truth, we know no greater thing.

“Open your arms,” the night is whispering.

A night owl has arrived, bringing us, I fear,

Endless sorrow.