Flocks of crows once again appear,
Dash towards the marching forest.
From the Winter slope I wake up,
Downwards the Dream is gliding.
Sometimes the sunlight would still keep
The agitation when two dogs meet.
That symphonic music is a hospital,
Cleans out the chaos of this mortal life.
The old person suddenly passed away,
In the whole life the cloth he weaved.
Water gushes up the branches' tips,
Rose made in metal will never wilt.
(translated by oswald poem 醒悟by Bei Dao)
142
沒有留言:
發佈留言