The poem for Li Gang’s inks on paper by Biao Zhang Lu--translated by Wen Zheng Zhu
Beneath the soft and warm lamplight
Seemingly a breeze soft-blows, that
Touches and shines upon the Totem embedded
Deeply in remote antiquity, and that
With the fine and calm veins
Shows Humans from wasted barrens
To advancing the civilizations
With the view of different angles and many layers
to inspect and taste.
Right now the admiring is barely being strong and colored,
There are no needs more conjecture; its
Thinking high over the era carries upon the wander-thought:
Aware of the spirit of the history inked by the pen,
And watch the many a time of the supersedure and newly born.
Gradually I see the paper-world
There is the book-hiding cave right there
when the ink touches Xiang monarch has hidden in it;
But the goddess still lingering in the rainy-clouds
Against the lonesome within her dazed haze:
Staying still and hopes the hopes
Lonely-remaining but disappointed.
It curses the Fate that is clearly demarcated
But still keeps changing it;
Lives in the cloudy-mist world
And facing the spacious firmament;
pure- coming and purely- gone：
Neither sinks down nor with the dirt below.
Heaven has given birth to the Mother;
The mother gave birth to the Goddess.
When the goddess in her freedom
Her mother lost all then.
Since there have been nothing should sticking in mind,
Then no need for coloring all around
Yet no sheltering from the smoky- cloud.
So come on, use the ink to water our world
Use the ink watering autumn-wind and
The galloping horses at the flatland;
Ink out the spring rains and the apricot blooms
For the south riverbank：
In the end,
It is watering the days gone by
And it is the inking of life.