9、 散后 After Departure
Among the flowers the breeze is whispering.
Listen----What is he saying?
Under the flourished bamboo groves,
Grows a tuft of little wild flowers,
Blooming so brilliantly.
My lovely flowers,
Just stay growing there.
The strings are broken!
Letting out a sudden slamming cry of sadness and nervousness:
Is it a yell of agony?
Or a cry of sadness?
In the night with a deep blackness,
Out from the silence of darkness flows a faint scent,
Though, not knowing what flower it comes from,
By experience, I know it is from flowers.
Just imagine how cruel I am:
In the church,
Grew a few sparse but lovely grasses
With freshly green tender shoots.
With momentary caprice,
I trod and killed her alive!
To a heart full of worries,
Waves of flower fragrance with breezes
Are merely the sudden touches
On taut strings!
White lotus is sleeping in a pond of clear water,
Wanting to live her sweet-dream life.
The summer night breeze is loafing slightly,
Petal by petal, she falls into the mud.
She went past,
Shyly throwing the rose from her bosom at my foot.
Oh, unfortunately for me,
Accidently, I stepped on it and smashed it!
Oh, bamboo tree!
Every morning I walk by you,
I pick off one of your leaves.
The cold dews on the tip of your leaf drip on my hand----
Oh, my tears!
Picking up a flower petal in the garden,
I asked her to be my love.
With no reply, she flushed,
So in agony I had to lay her back.
A night with clear and bright moonlight:
Is it joy and delight?
Or dismal plight?
The flower said to the poet,
“Though some of us are big, and some small,
We’re creating our respective arts for all,
Which are equally beautiful.”
Late spring is coming,
And all white butterflies are in yellow dresses for mourning,
Lamenting the fallen flowers aground
in a riot of colour.
The regular and lonely night rain,
With the low and deep sound of guitar on and off,
Drips on the bananas outside the window,
Deep into a wanderer’s sleeping heart,
Leaving him feeling the gloom of wandering
And the loneliness in roaming.
On the way of life,
In time of joy, your footprints are light and floating,
Which blur instantly.
Only in time of melancholy,
Are they forever engraved heavily.
Any flower is lovely:
The beautiful flowers of bright colours are lovely,
So are the withered flowers, aren’t they?
Isn’t it natural that
Withered leaves will fall?
What in rustling do they still sigh for?
In the boundless space,
Vaguely I see my initial cries rippling,
Mourning for my present soul! ;
After the perishing of a baby’s fantasy,
All that songs can bring are merely gifts of sorrow.
In the dim, vast and hazy dream,
I dreamed we were lovers who again met.
We hugged and wept.
In the misery in silent tears,
The sorrows after our parting clung to each other.
To bear a pure and showy flower,
Living in the dirty mud lotus would suffer.
When to me sorrow comes slowly
And taps my heart with her finger tips slightly,
I forget all completely;
And only feel her affections and tenderness…
Plucking on my heart strings
A kind of unknown pleasant bitterness.
Like a caterpillar,
Worry gnaws away the leaves of life one after another.
Is an endless sea of darkness.
Swallowing down all of the universe,
Without any trace.
Sorrow comforts human life,
“I am the reef.
I want to splash up countless sea sprays like snowflakes
In your water flowing smooth and peaceful,
To make you feel more beautiful.”
I know not what it is,
But I know when he says,
When she heard him mentioning the name of mine
She immediately blushed and turned with a bewitching smile.
When she was chatting with me,
She lowered her head to sew her white silk shirt.
Destiny is a hurricane over the desert,
Sweeping and chasing us
—the countless involuntary grains of sand—
Tossed and twisted around his iron finger.
Who can escape his swirl and power?
The silence of the waves
Submerged in the sea of the moonlit night,
Deepens the clarity and tranquility of the sea.
Thank you for shining clearly and brightly,
Escorting my soul each night on its way to her home quietly.
The little brook below the dense woods in the moonlit night,
Sings in a voice low but clear,
“Oh, Moon, my dear sister！
Shine on us forever!”
In a dream,
She and I were standing silently side by side
In the garden bathed in moonlight,
Listening to the dripping of the fragrant dew from roses,
With the clear moon quivering with silver waves.
The web of death is like the night curtain,
Gently, solemnly and quietly
Cleansing away forever the dust of weariness on our journey.
Dream of Retuning Home
In a dream erratic and illusive—I got home after trudging all the way from afar.
In the desolate dusk and dim scenery, Mother was leaning on the door, gazing into the distance. On the grass by the pond in front of the door, my younger brothers and sisters were playing as before. Seeing infinite languish engraved on her kindly face, I couldn’t help bursting into tears! When I woke up, it was the dead night of late spring, with dark green gauze outside the window in the dim light of the waning moon and cuckoos crying sadly. In the heartbreaking music of “Keeping the Spring”, withered petals of flowers seemed to be heard falling onto the ground.
I could do nothing but lie on bed lost in thought…
Dreams in my childhood appeared again in broken clouds.
It was a frosty night of a dead winter. Somehow, I strolled in stupor to a vast wilderness. It was a long, long way across the vast and silent red sands. In the desolate hazy mist, the north wind was howling, cold moon roaming high in dismay; frightened gooses sobbing, and strange owls weeping. Still a little child, I was in panic and horror! There was only loneliness and desolation!
I didn’t dare to stay there any longer, so I turned back hastily and rushed home. Mother was washing the rice in the kitchen. Seeing me embarrassed, upset and fatigued, she fed me busily and helplessly with the milk-like thick liquid made with water used in washing the rice, and warmed me up in her arms. A child in cowardice and horror, I threw myself into my mother’s caress and woke up in a cry of ‘wa’, still lying in her tender, cozy arms. Patting her hands on me, she sang in a low voice, “Sleep, dear, sleep. Mum is here with you.”
Oh, Mother! When I, from the rough and rugged wilderness, come back to the place where you are having your eternal sleep, will you still feed me with that rice milk!
The morning sparrow is singing.
In the glittering crystal
Morning sunlight with zephyr very little.
He sings a sacred and solemn ode
Extolling the merciful dark night,
Hazy but sober in dreams,
Weaving the sentiments of people’s joy and sigh,
He sings an endless and graceful delighting song,
Eulogizing the melted rays of morning sunlight.
In the vigor with heavenly drifting fragrance,
He descends with baby hopes.
He doesn’t curse darkness,
Because he knows it’s the pioneer of brightness!