WEN YIDUO

Dead Water

Here is a ditch of hopeless water,

The fresh breeze would not even raise half a ripple.

One might as well throw in a few more tins and scraps of metal

And why not pour in your left-over food and gravy

Perhaps the green of the copper will turn into emerald,

Rust on the tin cans emerge as petals of peach blossom;

Then let grease weave a layer of patterned muslin,

And bacteria brew vapours of coloured clouds.

Let the dead water ferment into a gully of green wine,

Floating pearl-like crowds of white foam;

The laughter of small pearls will change them to large pearls

Broken by mosquitoes to steal the alcohol.

Even a ditch of hopeless dead water

Can boast of some ornaments.

If the green frogs can’t bear the silence,

Then we can say that the dead water can sing.

Here is a ditch of hopeless dead water,

This cannot be a place where beauty lives,

Better let ugliness cultivate it,

And see what kind of world comes of it.

Transl. Tao Tao Sanders.

Perhaps

Perhaps you have wept and wept, and can weep no more.

Perhaps. Perhaps you ought to sleep a bit;

then don't let the night hawk cough, the frogs

croak, or the bats fly.

Don't let the sunlight open the curtain onto your eyes.

Don't let a cool breeze brush your eyebrows.

Ah, no one will be able to startle you awake:

I will open an umbrella of dark pines to shelter your sleep.

Perhaps you hear earthworms digging in the mud,

or listen to the root hairs of small grasses sucking up water.

Perhaps this music you are listening to is lovelier

than the swearing and cursing noises of men.

Then close your eyelids, and shut them tight.

I will let you sleep, I will let you sleep.

I will cover you lightly, lightly with yellow earth.

I will slowly, slowly let the ashes of paper money fly.