Night Stay by Gongchen Bridge

Two dark red painted boats bring dusk from upstream,
moored for a long time, emitting smoke, like two dowries
waiting to be opened, barges carrying sand and stone
pass under the bridge arch, almost soundlessly,
under the bow light, a few white plastic boxes
nurturing flowers, someone in love, unmoved by the flowing water.

Fine rain wets the lanterns, no one rides a donkey in the drizzle,
passing through doors and gates, no one ties a lean horse under the willow tree,
unfolds poetry scrolls and dark swords from yellow parcels,
how many old things along the riverbank are hidden by the willow colours?
They only emit faint light and sighs when there is no one in the deep night.

But there will still be someone waking up against the wall,
what he supports just waits for him to fall,
like a dead end filled with miniature landscapes,
at the southern end of the canal, those irregular heads
shine like lights, instinctively pure.

I can’t have a life as long as a river,
the skeletons of moths revolve around my silent brain.
Don’t regret, just turn off the lights,
this is your night, this is the world’s way,
autumn rain is still falling in the darkness,
still disappearing into the waters of the Grand Canal.

News of the Snow

In my hometown, snowfall
is a frequent occurrence,
those I asked about the news of snow
have vanished deep within the hometown,
just like snow vanishing into the sky.

And then, cold seeps from a single word,
like frost emanating from within a stone.
Some people returned, exhaling air,
nameless yet oddly familiar.

Because snowfall, in my hometown,
is a frequent occurrence,
as if riding in a car, the road seems to be rushing towards you,
rough landscapes are illuminated,
only to be engulfed by endless darkness moments later.

Sleeping on the Street

Step by step, you step along snowflake stairs
down to the street; often, the street
is a deep black river,
you are on the riverbed, flickering like a failing signal.

Snowflakes gather around your head
like the final tribute to a thought
continuously surprising you, wherever you go,
like a jellyfish stirring up dust – it takes a lifetime to be born.

These snowflakes in the dark
are the remnants of everything you touch,
transmitted to you through your fingertips;
it seems that you are always the uncertainty they crave.

Inch by inch, you lose your skin,
blood, bones; you become the wind without nerves,
beyond the ancient struggle between being and nothingness.
You rise again, like snowflakes from the depths,
no-longer flickering awake
but falling asleep again; relaxed and nameless.