Island
by Huang Lihai, tr. Wang Ping
We often bring up the no-man island
It’s a wedding bed burning in the sea
It doesn’t need to lie down to rest
Just as time has no need to live in a calendar
We also say, moist skin
Shows the visitor’s anxiety
The white mist in the woods fades away
We see the faint reflection of the old lighthouse
It’s a pillar of tears from the sea, standing at shore
Silent, gazing at the bird’s feet
Painting a map step by step on the beach
I believe the island is the echo of your calling
You can discard its spices and pearls again
Every life sings happily with you
Goutweeds are growing wildly
Whales are spraying one bubble after another
Shadows move, life still hanging on
Like coconut trees slanting to the sea, its hanging fruit
Shimmering in water, tiny waves looking exactly like shells
Nobody knows, the wind from the propeller
Spins with sand, birds, sails, and plants
They’re wild horses in another world
Their man flying, in the vast dusk light
岛屿
我们常提到无人居住的岛屿
它是大海光中燃烧的婚床
歇息不需要在床上
就好像岁月可以不在日历里
我们还说起，湿润的肌肤
闪耀着心神不安的来访者
树林里白色的雾已散去
倒影中的旧灯塔隐约可见
它是大海站在岸边的一柱泪水
不再说话，专注海鸟用小脚
一点点在沙滩画出的地图
我确信岛屿是你召唤时的回声
那些香料和珍珠可以再一次丢弃
凡是有气息的都与你一起欣喜地歌唱
羊角叶肆意的生长已揭开一角
鲸鱼向上的喷泉竖起另一个水的形体
阴翳移动，未完结的生命
如斜向海面的椰子树，悬浮的果实
倒映到水里，细小的波纹像极了贝壳
此时，没人知道，如桨之翼扇出的风
与沙子、鸟翅、风帆，还有植物一起旋转
它们是自然放养在别处的野马
它的鬓毛，在黄昏的夕光里辽阔地疾飞
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Wang Ping is a Chinese-American poet with over a dozen books to her name who lives in St. Paul, MN. See her webpage, WangPing.com.
See my reviews of her latest two poetry books at this post.
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