在一个世纪最短的末尾

At the tail end of the century

大地弹跳着

the big earth bounces,

人类忙得像树间的猴子。

people busy as monkeys up a tree.

而我的两只手

闲置在中国的空中。

Yet my two hands

桌面和风

float idle in China.

都是质地纯白的好纸。

The desktop and a breeze, both

我让我的意义

the pure white texture of good paper.

只发生在我的家里。

In my house alone

淘洗白米的时候

I make my meaning.

米浆像奶滴在我的纸上。

瓜类为新生出手指

I wash rice,

而惊叫。

and the milky rinsewater drips on my paper.

窗外，阳光带着刀伤

The melon shrieks

天堂走满冷雪。

at new-grown fingers.

每天从早到晚

Past the window, sunlight bears its stab wounds.

紧闭家门。

All over heaven shifts cold snow.

把太阳悬在我需要的角度

有人说，这城里

Each day, early to late,

住了一个不工作的人。

my door’s shut tight.

关紧四壁

Sunlight hangs at the necessary angle.

世界在两小片玻璃之间自燃。

In this city, someone says,

沉默的蝴蝶四处翻飞

lives a layabout.

万物在不知不觉中泄露。

我预知四周最微小的风吹草动

Squeeze four walls

不用眼睛。

between two small panes

不用手。

and the world self-ignites.

不用耳朵。

Silent butterflies flitter everywhere.

每天只写几个字

All things leak imperceptibly.

像刀

From every side, I predict

划开橘子细密喷涌的汁水。

the faintest trembling of a grassblade,

让一层层蓝光

without looking

进入从未描述的世界。

without touching

没人看见我

without hearing.

一缕缕细密如丝的光。

我在这城里

Each day, a few written words

无声地做着一个诗人

like knives

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.