Babbling brook winds its way from Snow mountain to ocean; Straight tree stretches tender fingers, tries to touch the sky; Blushed bud nods in the sunshine, dreams of blooming youthfulness; Humming bee kisses blossom, discusses their honey future; Warm wind wanders about field, lives begin to dance one after another. However, I can’t dance together but sigh aside. I haven’t found my own pose in this busy spring.
I was born in the hometown of wind, where it is windy constantly. Throughout dark nights/ and bright days; where meteor streaks across even with a strong blowing, breaks into glistening lakes on the colorful ground around.
Migratory birds are confused easily: Winter and summer are very short while warmth is long, seasons cycle unusually; Homesick seawater goes upstream frequently, assisted by the wind to embrace the snow mountain and fall in a serene sleep ahead.
There grains grow so quickly, golden sunlight in the field satisfies/ all tongues and granaries. The rest of the time people read poems, boil the wine* and laugh joyfully, ride the wind to roam distantly.
There women’s hair dances around like blossoming fireworks/ or flowers; There blooms are longer than elsewhere, no disconsolate lovers. Tears waft far away soon after they stream and are a rainfall to moisten desires.
Wind shuttles everywhere, seeds, longings, dreams and perfume of lives, as dandelions root anywhere, grow in an instant into what they once expected.
Eternal souls wander with the wind among the timeless future, reality and past like shadows following the moonlight–– neither part in life, nor separation by death, for/ it is the hometown of wind.
*Boiling the wine is a custom in ancient China and even in some places of current China, which intends to warm the wine. After boiling the wine, some fruits such as greengages and preserved plums are added into the hot wine. People wait to drink the wine until the tart flavour of the fruits disappears.
For a long time I stare at your slim and white* body of a tree which is sleeping deeply on the bottom of the plateau lake. The mysterious blue lake water is so ice-cold that keeps your beauty completely; the sunlight filtering through the water makes you a little dreamy.
Your negligent figure stretches in the clear water freely. Neither the lithe waterweeds nor the smart small fishes can awaken you a little. The gravel on your side always guards your secret in a mute way.
In the solitary mountains, the wild flowers are luxuriant and the woods are lush. The twittering of birds is heard occasionally far or near. while the protean clouds shadow into the lake. The starlight from millions of years ago is twinkling. After the autumn tints are splendid, the pure white snow frozen over the lake brings everything back to the silence.
Your voice seems to be heard sometimes in the quiet nights. Your somniloquy- like song raises from the deep bottom of the lake, as a slight smoke lingers over the lake and echoed in my rippling heart.
How many generations have you been staying in this chilly and lonely place peacefully? I ask both you and myself / dumbly. Away from millions of miles, I stare at your lying figure which is on the bottom of the lake for a long time like staring at my own deeply sleeping soul.
* Tree trunk becomes white in lake water because it has calcified for centuries.
Until the last apple petal shriverlled I just found my favorite spring has gone away quietly / without a farewell. The variegated sunlight bickering through the denser shade of trees is burning my sensitive eyes and bewildered heart as well.
Let me flutter my wings of butterfly to fly back to the dreamlike times! Let me grow into a high pear blossom tree and dance in a gust of wind with sleeves waving between heaven and earth like snow; or be the cherry blossoms drifting profusely whose fragrant soul with a pink train overwhelm the lawn, overwhelm the lake, overwhelm all the meandering and sentimental memories.
Let me land in a night with the full moon. Let me stand into a slender white cornel with the water-like moonlight over me and make a wish devoutly, which is as cool as the night dew； or melt into the amaranthine afterglow which is overcastting the sky in a drunk dusk with the crape myrtles all over the hills together then fall into a tipsy and gooey dream together.
Let me garland the sun-like primroses then run and shout in a gale with my feet bare to pursue the resource of the light! Let me comb my long hair into the fine and delicate willow branches then strike each chord in the throbbing heart in a breeze; or be an illusory almond blossom tree or magnolia in the misty rain, so my distant homestead in my hand can overlap the familiar tendernesss so closely.
Let my tentacles sweep across the edge of the lightning and hide among the thick beds of pond reeds reborn / like the ducklings; then throw myself into the colorful field gather some fresh and mild joy* with bitter or sweet taste the aftertaste is between my lips and teeth. Let me make a teapot of fresh tea with the spring-like flowing light at noon without any reason. Let me lay down my head on a pillow of the scents of grass and warm sunshine listen attentively / how a flower blooms and fades, then chew the old verse while sipping the sweet and crystal flavor of Spring.
Let my ethereal sight fly beyond the float clouds in the high sky and dive into the sea of Spring deeply. Swim, swim like a playful kid, who forgets the returning time, won’t come back shortly; or be a lover out of mind drag the bottom of dress tightly, which is drawing out to leave determinedly, and choke speechlessly even die to assume thus stay in Spring permanently.
Until the last apple petal withered I understand finally my enamored spring has gone away slowly / without a farewell. An oriole sings her mellow music outside my window while I drown in my departed dream deeply. I disregard her idly. She heaves a sigh, then flies away.
Note: Fresh and mild joy here means the fresh and mild flavorful wild flowers or vegetables which can be eaten by humans. It is from the poem of the ancient Chinese poet Sushi who wrote “The best flavor in the world is the mild joy ”.