Translated by Ye Chun, Melissa Tuckey, and Fiona Sze-Lorrain
White Cloud
I sat on a knoll,
thinking I was sitting on a white cloud.
Just like that, I slept for twenty years.
Now I’m awake,
I see they’ve cut the white cloud into geometric fragments,
placed them in elaborate gift boxes,
and brought them to the market for sale.
Black Face
Wind soars.
Warm spring wind.
A dirty child at the railway station
and a sloppy old man.
They’re fighting for an empty beer bottle
someone threw away.
Like a wild cat, the child
jumps in front of the old man,
grabs this five-cent object.
He gets it,
but doesn’t smile.
He stamps it flat
and tosses it into a snake-skinned bag.
He lifts his face up.
So dark, so dirty!
Savage and stubborn,
like today’s life!
He whistles,
walks away like nothing happened,
ignores
the hunch-backed
mumbling old man who stands aside.
Wind soars.
Looks like it’ll rain.
Father
(From a dream some days ago)
Father came back.
In my dream,
my long-departed father came back.
But why was the room leaking rain?
Why were all the people in the room strangers?
That night I drank too much coffee.
I dreamed such a strange dream
just ten minutes after falling asleep.
When I woke up, I felt a little guilty.
Why didn’t I repair the roof for Father?
Why didn’t I sweep the water out of the room
or ask those strangers
who they were, what they wanted?