Like a tattered garment
Hanging over the bin brim
He, burying himself in the bin
Which he has been rummaging for half a day
Comes upon a mooncake
Which he bites a fierce bite
I'm really worried
That this moldy stuff
Is saturated with human poisons
With versatile talents in
Zither, chess, calligraphy, painting,
Singing and dancing,
You, having fallen into prostitution,
Picking up your lonely figure,
Struggles in troubled times.
Love tangled with hate for a lifetime,
Your frail body
Can't support the Ming Dynasty's sovereignty.
All lofty ambitions
Were by mistake reincarnated into a woman.
Iron hoofs trampling overhead
Even an urgent dispatch cannot sound
The trumpet for an expedition
For swords have long rusted
And chariots have been trapped in the quagmire of history
This grand army
Having put their rivers and mountains aside
Conceals their identity
And holds wakes only for a single dead monarch
To a few cicada chirpings on the pillow
A migrant worker is lying on a wooden bench
With sunshine sieved by plane trees
Rendering his mud-covered coarse cloth garment
Embroidered with patterns
He, like a slumbering leopard
Squeezes a smile through the cracks between his teeth
To lean to one side
He has fallen into the world
Like a withered yellowish leaf
Rain has removed the makeup for lotuses
Falling leaves have taken off the last chirping of cicadas
Cool breezes engage themselves in sneak attacks night after night
Making coolness piercing through from handback to palm
Paddies open their mouths
And reveal an answer to the riddle they have harbored for over half a year
Like a woman who is going away for a long trip
Rifling through the wardrobe for some old clothes
Which she tries again and again
Upon the wind's whisper
Like a butterfly
She
With a flutter
Flies up and indicates for me
The way home
A stone
Cherishing the oracle of the immortals
Falls from the sky
Like a stele
Wedging into the journey of life
The wheels chanting
A poem
Roll into the distance
The wind is choking.
DREAM, soaking wet,
Stands on the opposite bank.
A small wooden boat surging out of reed marshes,
Carrying a cabinful of past events,
Crossing a low bridge arch,
Sinks at dawn.
Flying Pigeon
Wen/Empty is quiet
The bell ring several times,
Like a wisp of smoke
She slipped through the open door,
Along the rugged path,
And almost flying
She put her hand around my waist.
Like a frightened little snake
Entangling a past event
And never letting it go.
Place Spring on the cutting board
One chop to halve it
Nothing is more fair than this:
Black and white
Divide equally the whole sphere
An instant later
To slant the Sun starts
Shorter are the dreams
Faster the blossoms bloom
Even faster they fall