At the tail end of the century

在一个世纪最短的末尾

the big earth bounces,

大地弹跳着

people busy as monkeys up a tree.

人类忙得像树间的猴子。

而我的两只手

Yet my two hands

闲置在中国的空中。

float idle in China.

桌面和风

The desktop and a breeze, both

都是质地纯白的好纸。

the pure white texture of good paper.

我让我的意义

In my house alone

只发生在我的家里。

I make my meaning.

淘洗白米的时候

米浆像奶滴在我的纸上。

I wash rice,

瓜类为新生出手指

and the milky rinsewater drips on my paper.

而惊叫。

The melon shrieks

窗外，阳光带着刀伤

at new-grown fingers.

天堂走满冷雪。

Past the window, sunlight bears its stab wounds.

每天从早到晚

All over heaven shifts cold snow.

紧闭家门。

把太阳悬在我需要的角度

Each day, early to late,

有人说，这城里

my door’s shut tight.

住了一个不工作的人。

Sunlight hangs at the necessary angle.

关紧四壁

In this city, someone says,

世界在两小片玻璃之间自燃。

lives a layabout.

沉默的蝴蝶四处翻飞

万物在不知不觉中泄露。

Squeeze four walls

我预知四周最微小的风吹草动

between two small panes

不用眼睛。

and the world self-ignites.

不用手。

Silent butterflies flitter everywhere.

不用耳朵。

All things leak imperceptibly.

每天只写几个字

From every side, I predict

像刀

the faintest trembling of a grassblade,

划开橘子细密喷涌的汁水。

without looking

让一层层蓝光

without touching

进入从未描述的世界。

without hearing.

没人看见我

一缕缕细密如丝的光。

Each day, a few written words

我在这城里

like knives

无声地做着一个诗人

slice open the orange, spurting its juice.

Let bands of blue light

enter an unspoken world.

The threads of my dense, silky luster

are invisible.

I dwell in this city,

soundless and a poet.